When midnight’s veil doth cloak the shrouded lands,
And owls cry out in ruined, ivy halls,
I seek thee, Sleep, with open, aching hands,
And flee the world within thy shadowed thralls.
Thou art no thief, but bring’st a peace so deep,
More fair than love, more true than daylight’s grace.
Each breath I take within thy house of sleep
Leaves dream-born roses blooming o’er my face.
Disturb me not, lest death itself ye crave,
For by my flintlock, loaded, sharp, and keen,
I guard this rest more dearly than the grave,
And curse the soul who dares to come between.
So let the wind wail low, the night be steep—
For none shall wake me from my hallowed sleep.
Fateful Chance
Upon the path where shadows softly creep,
Beneath the cloak of night’s celestial glow,
With caution tread, where ancient secrets sleep,
To yonder monastery, dark and low.
The stars, like watchful eyes in heaven’s dome,
Illuminate the way with silver light,
Yet in the air, a chill begins to roam,
For whispers tell of creatures of the night.
The ancient stones, with ivy overgrown,
Stand silent, shrouded in a mystic air,
As if they guard a truth long left unknown,
A tale of blood and darkness lurking there.
With every step, the shadows seem to dance,
And in their depths, a sense of fateful chance.
Upon the frozen fields
Upon the frozen fields where frost doth bite,
The barren earth seems locked in winter’s chain.
Yet ‘neath the snow, a promise glimmers bright,
And dreams of spring within the heart remain.
For through the night’s cold veil of dread and blight,
The hunter wields his artful black powder’s might.
Its thunder splits the heavens, fierce and raw,
And bends the beast beneath its mortal law.
But lo, though courage crowns the valiant fight,
The toll of labor finds a bitter bane.
For kings and lords, in greed, do claim their right,
And tax the hand that wrought their gilded gain.
Thus winter yields, yet man remains oppressed—
The fields may bloom, but burdens steal his rest.
