Thy words bring ill and thee envenom,
Art whetted as scythe to make foul deeds
That is to slay the one who heeds
Alas! Dost not thee fond of freedom?
Whence rather ‘tis so kindly given
For e’er quoth each minds thither.
What are ye trieth to achieve?
Yet, maugre thou intentions hither
‘Tis tongue so scarce of wisdom either
And words so daring holdeth naught,
For naught that is - so we perceive.
Fro whence I stand, daresay I – Zounds!!
Thy heart hath granteth shallow grounds
Thus I withhold my wrothful speech
And leave thee pardon to beseech.
Poison words
© Copyright: Darkrayden, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103042100679
Свидетельство о публикации №103042100679
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