PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Hied and harried, by the wild flood,  

Driven, bedraggled, before the red silk tide,

Their blood stained the star  

And the crescent moon.



These hill men, poor herdsmen,

Hungry at bay,

Turned, as they must,  

To the sword and the sea.



Where untaught, they fought,

For the new master's bread.

There they found they could win,

And master the tide.



Ferocious, fanatical, in battle maniacal,

They fought as they ought,

As those suckled on slaughter,

And for all they had left, revenge and the faith.



They blunted the tips of the crescent moon,

Took the shine off that star,

And they trimmed Venetian tentacles,

For the gold and their Kaiser.



For centuries our frontier,

Was there where they stood,

For they never sought peace,

They had lost too much blood.