The Glories of Our Blood and State
Upon Death's purple altar now
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate.
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made.
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field.
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield.
They tame, but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And they must give up their murmuring breath.
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow.
Then boast no more of your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
They smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
About the Creator
Bishnu Kumar
“I am now ready to create captivating fantasy stories.”ex- poet,fiction
By the way, you can comment on what kind of story you want to read. I will try to fulfill your needs.
Thanks.
Comments (2)
This was so dark and intense. Loved your poem!
Good poem!