The death of a king.
He hangs here, fair,
bound, blue of skin and flowing hair,
with oken leaves to cover him.
Soon he will groan, a-crushing ‘twix two sacred stones,
and never a morsel for me, for me,
for after they will burn his bones.
The Precious Blood.
It costs, men say,
can stave off some god’s judgment day,
so valuable gods find him.
And others, too … a hundred valuable kings pass through,
but never a morsel for me, for me,
though I be Raven, black and true.
The Sacred Tale
may be told again,
when he’s long gone, of such great men
as Lancelot, God save him.
As Gawain, Percival, great lights, a sad score sacrificed by night,
(though never a morsel for me, for me),
and lastly, greatly, of the Christ.
The First of Kings,
ancienter than these,
was hung, in past age, on a tree,
with never a leaf to cover him.
And he did groan, and later All shall become his own —
but that’s to be. For now it’s me,
in grimmest vigil, all alone.