Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing. THE LABOUR OF OUR HEROES PAST Dazzling, crystal like a golden eagle Young, green like a green eagle Gentle, calm like a super eagle Confident, relaxed like the big boss Hopeful, lively like tomorrow Keshi, you broke my heart. You were better than an idol Taller, higher than an icon More conspicous than a beacon Wider than a model Wonderful like a citadel The captain, the coach, the champ. Your smile charmed defeat Your courage shone on a glass house You exhumed classy aura None expected that you bow now Our first world cup, you were there Rasheed Yekini, Uche Okafor A squad too unique to be gone, Sam Okoye, Sam Okwaraji, Shaibu Amodu A battalion too sophisticated to be conquered. The flight of death crashed your fight The plight of nature took your sight The pain outweighs the gain Yet the gain stampedes the pain, A hole worse than a vacuum An abyss so unfathomable; You left in our heart. Bore the cross of a boss with less loss Shone dignity and integrity Half mast flags, twenty gun-salute Medals of honour, immortalization All; some volumes and editions You remain a statue and of monument You shattered the domain of sports Stephen, the football martyr. I wished you became a sports' minister To fix the pieces of the glass house I wished you became a soccer god Or like adidas, puma and nike I wished you became a better Bora Or a mightier Clement Westerholf I wish your wife never died I wish you were never gone, Left unannounced, unprepared Keshi, you broke our heart. More than a hero Far, yet close like a friend This tune of june Heavy pain, heavy heart, heavy ink Delta, Nigeria, Africa, the world This piece is so empty Because Keshi broke my heart. My Captain, My Coach My Boss, My Legend You were a patriot so sound A compatriot so resounding If you still have eyes You would see us devastated We pray you find perfect peace Stephen, a saint from his labour, rests. IN MEMORY OF SOK (1962-2016) AND ALL OUR FOOTBALL LEGENDS WHO FELL ASLEEP DEAR CHINUA ACHEBE At night, in the village square At gathering for moonlight tales I tell the dwindling hope of my people, In a theatre it unfolds like a movie I see their agony, In a theatre like a sugeon stitching a torn flesh, I feel their pain I watch them wail and weep As they swim in aches and navigate the trauma, Penetrate the pores of hardship And permeate the rocks of starvation Because the center holds no more Things are falling apart And they are no longer at ease, They mourn like a widow mourning her murdered son And a virgin weeping for her slain soldier. From the river bank i watch As the storm disband fishes And wave blow up beaches I watch tide sweep the shores away. Titanic, yet sinking Rowing, yet steady Floating, yet drowning Coagulating debris and fungi Dead, like a dead sea. Far from the madding crowd I watch the struggle As they labour and toil in vain Harvesting vanity and waste The outrageous disaster, And the flooding blood A rhetorical question None dares ask nor answer. Dear Chinua Achebe Things are falling apart I think there was a country with the arrow of God Maybe they kept it like those that captured "the ark of covenant". The banner of illiteracy engulfed our land And chain of ignorance betrothed our fate, The fetters of superstition clouded our peace Then came the egocentric god to rescue The god that indeed came against us, used us against us The stranger that bought our ancestors Enslaved our fathers, married our mothers The tyrant that we served, guarded and worshipped That one, that broke our center Cracked our wall and made us fall apart The one that sold and bought us for nothing. Dear Chinua Achebe, He bewitched us to practise witchcraft on ourselves Till now things remain fallen apart As though our womb bore no talents As if our land was thorn instead of crown As though we had no patriarch of gold Brave and bold, As if there was no matriarch of ruby, sacred and consecrated.
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Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles. this great confusion hums my voice into being *** I am mighty in the evening when everything is gone except the past. the past is in me; present. I am mighty when I send you words hearing the thought glean its essence in the fade from right to wrong and love to heartache in the motion of lips into the sound I bless your thought too; though I have never met you. Still, this is a greeting, for your tomb. she speaks over the earth, like a fountain giggling in her rush downwards to the sea *** she isn't here but I can feel her in my head, this dizzy weight. Men feel the absence of a woman as this headache; suppurated under the scalp, little mountains pushing up from the salty waters men know to construct a logic for the woman's absence; that though she is gone there is hope for her return because he can feel her absence, and this sense is her *** willful midnight and rain all the barky poems of youth, groaning to its musical party. the black plague of education and our bedfellows, nourishing the rot, and the reign of our games. all the pretty things glow quietly at night, when we are tired, and the rush of the rain glows over my glasses, and we pretend. I'll smile and slip under your cuff like a smoking prank under the hood of your car to remind you how glorious it is to laugh at your own misfortune this game life plays on you, saying, once more, once more, once more *** I won't go when I go I'll stay here when I go when you go I'll stay here and say I was you I'll go as you and tell you to stay so I can go too. I'll go with you when I stay so you can leave by me and I'll know all the things you saw *** she's dancing near a fire I can see her eyes; a ghost ghost, come closer I want to hear you breathing *** In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of a cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. During his visit, he participated in the international literary conference sponsored by La hermandad de las palabras 2015 in Babahoyo, Ecuador. He served as judge for the 2013 The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. His latest books include Violin Smoke (bilingual English/Hungarian): 2015; Lost Among the Hours: 2015, Parabola Dreams (with Silvia Scheibli): 2013 and Alone with the Terrible Universe: 2011. He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University. ALAN BRITT: Library of Congress Interview: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/media/avfiles/poet-poem- alan-britt.mp3 alanbritt@comcast.net COLOR OF LOVE The color of love? As if, as if? As if that easy. As if banal as TV advertising makes it out to be. Scales shifting as though an earthquake rocks a birthday party not fit for a queen, exactly, but the spitting image of a queen. Blood, like Old Faithful, spews molecules & atoms, & it’s the atoms, or parts of atoms: protons, neutrons, electrons, quarks flirting like quarks did before Darwin, quarks in your walnut eyelashes, in your lips, quarks that escape the razor wire of your smile, quarks massaging atoms causing them to magnetize every square inch of flesh, synapses like a Chinese 4th of July or Baudelaire upsetting a bourgeois military celebration, quarks with minds of their own, quarks. CROW FUNERAL Below my right lung, in a lexicon reserved for family, crow chortles the sunrise. Baby daughter, Nat Geo antennae aslant folded wings, waddles my liver scraping sleepy beak against her mom's feathers gleaming like moonlit tar. Mother’s beak sifts black rainbows beneath daughter's icicle neck, seeking lice, ticks & naive politicians. Snatches a governor from Arizona & deposits her into the concrete artery feeding my stomach—I belch & awaken the entire nest. Papaya sun bleeds stringy walnut branches lining the perimeter of a pasture. Six crows cross foreheads, yellow-spotted, russet & watercolor rose, the dewy foreheads of oaks & elms, joining murder in a maple to observe moments of silence for young male broken by UPS truck yesterday noon, pausing for ritual, proper service for this young'un who chased dragonflies & sounded the chilly alarm for goshawks on the prowl. One onyx feather graces the desk of a poet who loves crows . . . others scattered by a pomegranate breeze across gravel just before, in unison, all fifty-five crows explode like flecks of pepper into the bloody dawn. HUG Steel clip, black beak with silver jaws of machine oil crushing fingernails. Eyes, blue Monet lilies, cloud my living room, speaking of past, present & future. Well, Canadian Goose who forgot to fly south, you're in a pickle. Enough or too much, Bill reminds? Sometimes, enough is enough. THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION This one takes you to the dust, grinds you into a smooth, stained longleaf pine warehouse floor, inner Boston, 1850’s, for the bustling Industrial Revolution. This one takes you to the limits of credible sensibility, as though, as though. This one thinks time is a button on the crinkled collar of an all-cotton button-down pinstripe spinning wheel. Moses bobs beneath the apricot bug light. This one tastes like genocide to a lowland gorilla. This one’s askew, unless one considers interspecies love, a la that senator from out west. This one takes you to the dust, grinds you into a smooth, stained chestnut warehouse floor, nestled along the banks of the Charles, 1850’s or so, for the bustling Industrial Revolution. WORN OUT I’m worn out. I’ve been in love for a long time, feels like forever, but now I’m worn out. Have mercy on my shoe salesman’s soul, plus a few designer infidelities. I only want the good life. You know, one that includes gypsies in sea slug Spanish dancer dresses rippling the currents of imagination, not that I’ve known a gypsy firsthand-- supermarket romances exaggerated-- but believe me, no one in his proper attitude would fall for an Italian banana slinging cans of stewed tomatoes using Russian analog controls from two Cold War gunboats built back when the world hissed like Mount St. Helens. Sorry about the forever—nothing changes forever—I’m just too worn out to know the difference. Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. Ken is the Co-Editor of the new Poetry Anthology titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web including: Indiana Voice Journal, Belle Reve Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others. The Melting Winter storm of inglorious snow finding a home in higher lands melting to an harmonious tune slowly cascading in icy rushes granite rocks and rough water telling tales of highland woes journey to a bluish of oceans from wood, swamp and glade pious path of fearless doubts wildflower's hum in rhymes seers decree honored vows life giving blood to all nature reverent thoughts move along scowls and frowns devoid here beauty and mystique whisper a mountain stream runs down. Island Talk Rainbow wings upon a terracotta roof pink or yellow houses bright in the sun chickens squawk as the lazy dogs nap goats and pigs run awaiting their lunch breezes from the harbor welcomed by all fisherman along the beach cast for dinner marshmallow clouds moving very slowly island in my dreams, come talk for awhile. Adieu Raindrops of falling magic spatter upon a metal roof melodious sleeping tunes warm tea welcomes tired lips fluffy pillow and comforter await carry me to a restful fantasy pup is fed and candles smolder slide into dreams, cat at my feet. To sleep, to sleep; the moon yawns. the stars softly whisper adieu, adieu. (First Published, Whispers of the Wind Blog) Learned Silence leaf strewn empty lot little children absent numbers in color chalk laughs from yesterday. bike rack bent & twisted fences missing and rust kids watch from the steps question looks, zero trust police car resting, tireless oak tree darkened by fire windows smashed, silence ode to those fallen, lifeless. Final Gasp Impatiently waiting for twilight's final gasp a Summer's heated feted night sings away breezes of lightness bend grasses so softly ducks needing rest, now land upon the bay lighting a Camel and watch the smoke rise into a star filled sky of a darkish purple haze sitting on the porch as the small waves crest while an airliner high in the sky heads east. citronella is lit as mosquito's now swarming a full moon reaches towards a nervous sky drifting in thought like a misty fog passing in a blink of an eye, candle wicks dance. life brings to boil memories of time gone years spent in poor health, minus wealth as I've never been the most important thing to friends or anybody, not even to myself. Jenny Santellano is a poet from Chicago, Illinois. Some of her other poetry can be found in The Beatnik Cowboy, Section 8 Magazine, Random Poem Tree, and Dead Snakes. Happy Smiley People Life hinders living, and I don’t have to die to prove it I’ve got forty eight years of evidence People hate truth They rather stay silent or smother their fellow man in comfy lies They think that makes them wise and kind Avoid confrontation whenever possible Don’t raise your voice or lose control God forbid anyone should actually hear what you’re thinking They might label you insane, lock you up, or throw another bottle of pills at you Humanity is staying calm, cautious, and contrived Meanwhile, children are being sold as sex slaves, heads are being severed on live tv, and cops are killing kids for looking at them the wrong way I should keep my mouth shut when I hear others saying stupid shit Perpetuate ignorance “Turn the other cheek” Mind my own business Stay happy Hidden Dreams Dreams are hidden in second chances, uninvited circumstances Runaway, no food or clothes A drug dealer no-show Singer with no band Money, no hands One bad trade Dull blade Love The Canyon of My Heart The canyon of my heart is filled with angst, joy, and pain It is deep as it is vague in memories of moments that have passed Sorted sorrows sift soulfully through timeless truths that travel tellingly At the bottom lies love, languishing, hopeful, wishing for harmony Rising to the top, lingering around the edge, is you You, who knows the secret path to the door that leads to nowhere, an empty, dark nothingness, where the answer is what it is. Poet FETHI SASSI was born on the 1st of June 1962 in Nabeul Tunisia . A writer of prose poetry and short poems. He participated in several national literary meetings. A member in the Tunisian Writers' Union. And member in the Literature Club at the cultural center of Sousse. His first book of poetry entitled "A Seed of Love" was published in the year 2010. The second entitled “ I dream …. And “I sign on birds the last words " in 2013. The third book of poetry " a sky for a strange bird “ in Egypt. And a short poem book entitled “All the universe is only the face of my beloved”. A wild woman Poem Arabic translated by Monia Zguidi I say ... Why don't I go astray Burdened by winter Probing into the realm of the poem ? That's why my mother told me : Don't drink milk with the jerk Ride towards the north of the night …. And drink her face ... No shadow left you ; but what befalls you Is the alienation of exiles upon the last cloud That splintered in the tavern of the night In fact …. you desire nothing but a wild woman …. Bones of a tree that changes its clothes for your forthcoming wedding And a poem that wets the hair of water with a ballad ... Thus we parted like a hug …. Therefore, my son you have to woo your wound ... So that you pick up an amazement from her lips Come in and let the sun bathe her face in your hands ... Let the coal of the story blaze with your longing Dwell in fire to warm up the poem On the shadow of the factors Definitely the lightening will dwell stealthily in her cup of coffee. So you become .... The stature of roses ... and a tavern of tears Then at the extremity of the threads of poetry Bathe in the salt of her lips Lay the absence on fire …. So that the rose grows old with her bleeding fragrance And the poem peeps on my fingertips The evening smells the metaphor excessive in counting its fingertips The spikes yearn for the call .... And the story remains like a tattoo on the shoulder of doves ..... Ache flutes Poem is Arabic translated by Fethi Sassi Really … I do not reflect on eternity But all the history is that I rebuke the wind in the introduced poem …. I roistering as god does in the poet‘s funeral ceremony I lie down on a tree border embracing baby fruit embroider my face on my shoulder and scatter climates of nostalgia … For suckling desire from bundle talk But the milk cries if breate history is gushing out a dream lost on the sly with peeps stars ….. I have no face to wet my confusion in a sky for a new happiness I will seclude in the bottom of the absence And scratch his extravagant night … Intimidate the silence to the resignation of the emptiness and collect pebbles to court ache flutes …. My name is Moses Chukwuemeka Daniel, I am from Ebonyi state Nigeria, Africa. I am a young African writer and poet. 'Echo of our girls(chibok) chibok where are thy girls? Chibok where is thy pride? Just yesterday we felt her smile, Today she is not in sight. Do you hear the boom boom!!? I bet they are now in gloom, Which architecture designed this doom? Will tomorrow sweep us all like dirt too ? I hear in that place, Those who see don't say, Those who say don't live, Really they Do not leave. every night they get clothed with fright, Every night they get cuddled by cries, They see men but no one to call father, They sorrow as they beg the night the beauty she once had. everyday dreams and aspirations get broken, Every night the pride between the legs get stolen, Sometimes it seems the journey is never ending, But they never stop praying and wishing. Every beginning is like it's end, Even the ground is no longer a friend, Our girls get saved from their saviours, Just to get hidden from the beauty of tomorrow. Every night I hear her voice, That endless banging in my heart, Every night I feel her love, When I spin over and she is no where to be found. Chibok fight a good fight, We don't say good morning, Until the night is over, Always remember tomorrow will be fine. What is love? What is love when brothers stab at back? what is love when all we get are broken hearts? what is love when a mother sells her child? What is love when life is a waste of time? Love is but hate when it bears envy, friendship is but a game when it lacks truth, brothers are but animals when they decide to kill, the world is a jungle when humans are choped like fruits. What is love in the hands of care? What is love when we leave in fear? What is love when we know no change? What is love when a heart can't feel? In the clutches of ripe wickedness, when man finally stops caring or sharing, sin feels the air with throes, what is man when love is the answer? When man sleep with one eye shut and other lit open, when men are charity in the hands of death, our original beauty are hidden in rage and hate, what is man when love is the answer? Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee. Writing for six years, his work has appeared in more than a thousand publications including The Louisiana Review, Bluestem, Emrys Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Roanoke Review, The Red Cedar Review and The William and Mary Review. He has poems forthcoming in Hawai’i Review, Sugar House Review, Plainsongs, Free State Review and Texas Review. The Soldering Point As when living is the newest thrill roots becoming rooted I begin to consider first words, an initial impression becoming intimacy-- it’s you and it should be you; my partner in beneficent laughter and the bestowing of rings, comforting with chrysanthemums and the nectar of hummingbirds. But within exhilaration and discovered serendipity, respiring bells offer perpetual intervention; the completion of a full circle, the soldering point, a small crown resting infinitely above you. Sacerdotal Smiles The rich bruise of deepest space pulses with sacerdotal smiles upon the ludus of your skin, the exigence of your willing capacity. But if you’re trying to assert the shibboleth of your demi-humanity-- waiting for sanguine completion in a form only you can envision; then I’m only a sad approximation or even a total apostasy of all that you once imagined. Still, if there’s a possibility; something beyond chemicals and science and the farrago of simple faith, I will come to you in that bleak disarray wearing the guise of your childhood prayers and press myself into your sad absence until your throat sighs and you believe in a moment of eternity and that the laughing gods of infinity are somehow satisfied as well. Breakdown of the Given World When I was asked what other era I’d live in if given the choice I said “Any dystopian future. The war against the machines, zombie apocalypse, alien invasion, gamma world or thought-police state would all be acceptable.” I thought I was being funny but I’m usually not so I’ve been forced to take my answer seriously-- I’ll do best in a time when lying, risk-taking and guiltlessness have become first-nature. In a handful of years, when the first few billion are enslaved or dead and I show up at your cave or bunker, I’ll tell you that I’m here to help. My smile will appear as a fowler’s snare of sincerity. The feathers wedged in the corners of my mouth will be ignored. Flesh Reverie I don’t remember what you said that first night-- slenderly in light extinguished, the curving pleasure of incalculable intimacy. I’m learning to enjoy the soft rain and the tenuous tresses on my skin as you fill my lungs with color and gratification. The dissonance of our carillon splinters the metaphor we thought we were-- strains of human moonlight swooped upon earth. But this is only the other side of something blue. We’ve become a distortion of understanding, advocates of a ruthless love begging mercy. You tell me that you think we deserve a testament filled with burgeoning powerful clarity like we found last night in the flesh reverie that could only be now. Cohen Vespertine When time crawls sideways I experience your neck, back, breasts, thighs in infinite variety-- a hallucinogen in starlight; and in the background the old man sings on with poetry surpassing finite. Chaitali Gawade's writerly musings are fuelled by tea and coffee. Her work has been published by Unbroken Journal, Duckbill Anthology and Vagabondage Press, among others. She blogs at chaitaligawade.com
Construction I peel layers of earth, lay pipes big enough for the canal to turn course as the sun breaks out, harsh cries of crows pierce the sky. Tyres whir vehicles rush by. It's time for lunch when the sun rides above me. I sit under a tamarind tree, it does all it can to offer solace through its sparse leaves. Puddles from yesterday's rain keep me company as I eat curd rice from a tin plate. Some distance ahead a street dog rummages through a large garbage dump searching for lunch. Finding none he moves on to newer kingdoms. My tattered purple saree hangs from a sturdy branch, a temporary cradle for my baby girl, her face towards the sky. Existence I am caged in words that soothe me, peel onion layers of blackened bruises from my orphaned skies. Their sound rushes to embrace my well used soul, they jump at me like monkeys on rail tracks. My flowers are drenched in letters raining words into my existence. Unseasonal Bulbuls in pairs on lamp-posts, drenched in sudden summer rain. Don Beukes is originally from Cape Town, South Africa where he was born, raised and educated in the last two decades of Apartheid. He is a retired English and Geography teacher, now weaving words and have only been published since August 2015, writing about global issues affecting our global village and trying to adjust our moral compass. His work has appeared in Indiana Voice Journal, Prachya Review, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice, The Voices Project, GloMag and others and is to be a featured Contemporary World Poet in Asian Signature in the June 2016 issue. He has been published in two Anthologies by Creative Talents Unleashed; 'Shades of the Same Skin' and 'Poetic Melodies' and the forthcoming 'Selfhood' anthology by Transcendent Zero Press. The 'Aapstrak' Quadrilogy Gnilegnoj- Part One They call me Gnilegnoj I’m aware my features disturb you just cannot help yourself, with breath gasping hands frantically clasping your whole being not grasping. Your heart instantaneously a wreckage battling to absorb the message questioning my metamorphoses was I constructed by dark forces? My UFO eyes leaving you mesmerised your thoughts a galactic black hole clashing with your brainwashing - You mock and chastise me my traumatic existence not free my uniqueness not celebrated - My kind universally heinously hated. My forefathers a vicious circle, My ruby fiery blue blood flow gushing onto my biological glow so there you are liberated, Here I am their clown confiscated, My kind intrusively stared at like a monstrous pre-historic carnivorous cat, If you could only take the leap momentarily locking your prejudice streak, You might look at me and see your blinding reflection wouldn’t you agree? I am you, They call me Gnilegnoj. Egnis Ednarg - Part Two As I retreat from yet another mayhem mission I fail to purify my veiled vision, My position dictated by royal commission I yearn for a renewed identity - Who is this murderous malevolent entity? My pulsating heart no more a sacred sanctuary I am all seeing all knowing - Oh, the curse of an anointed king enforcing the reviled royal sting! My stained ancient face splattered with the spoils and coils of senseless savage wars not even I remember the cause, Sheepishly abiding to our extinct defunct porous laws with its obvious catastrophic flaws. My mission a clever ruse showered in ruby rouge if only to aimlessly amuse, My intransigence no coincidence, I do what must be done in order for us to thrive stay alive, Furiously battling to survive as I gaze over the cancerous carnage I am overcome by echoing emotion amidst the confused commotion, Lamenting our rumination and ruination, Clinging to a false legacy overshadowed by a tainted tribal ecstasy. I am known as Egnis Ednarg I have served my time, lying here bleeding multi-coloured blood, Our ephemeral state not truly sublime. Volcon- Part Three My fiery baptised name is Volcon I have beady piercing fire-rock eyes like a falcon - My spiral temper burns and erupts like a gurgling volcano if you dare to look at me adjust your gawping gaze or I might blind you at this stage. My title was sparked by the royal Egnis Ednarg, What he does not suspect is my steaming hatred with immediate effect, His heir is rumoured to be announced for sure, He is known to me and you as that disgusting freak of nature Gnilegnoj, I dare not share my murderous thoughts or even divulge a slight hint what do you think? The elders often meet in secret sharing vicious tales and prophesies most sacred igniting my swirling atomic anger confirming my secret bloodline and crowning as rightful future defender. My dead-stare pearly midnight eyes witness things you dare not believe, Am I entitled to take what is rightfully mine disturb the current order sublime? You will most probably never understand my inner turmoil and heritage grand - It drowns me in a bottomless hole tears me apart my heart dark charcoal, Venomous rumours puncture my loyalty, The time has come to annihilate false royalty! No time for regret the trap set left with no choice my challenging flag to hoist, My jealousy no confusion it feeds my chosen mission - I dare not falter now my crown awaits, are you with me to witness unimaginable agonising anarchy? Gnilredou- Part Four At first glance you might think I'm in a geriatric trance or perhaps my war-torn physique dilutes my proud nation's mystique - I share a bloodline regal and rare powerful warriors born from my lair. I am Ouderling fondly known as Gnilredou great-grandfather to the royal heir Gnilegnoj, His brittle life in imminent mortal danger disturbingly not from a foreign stranger, My physical state might just dictate my ultimate foretold fate although history dictates it will suffer from jealous related hate. The elders have secretly gathered to speak of an unknown dangerous heir I supposedly fathered, Known amongst us as the devious one none other than that opportunist Volcon! In hindsight I now regret sending my grandchild to war - He failed miserably to settle that ancient score, His defeat pitifully punctured my tired heart, I do not mourn the slain king Egnis Ednarg. Our legacy will echo eternal our leadership to remain purely paternal - If you dare to look more closely you might even possibly see the omnipresent face of my ancestor, Valiant true defender proud protector, The enigmatic and heroic Rotsecna. |
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