Darkness closed, descended around him,
his sword alight, held aloft.
Scattered about, the slain, his kin, lay,
mangled and twisted, mighty no longer.
"Wyrm of evil, wreathed with hate,
the sun will set on thy stinking corpse.
Ye shall drink Styx's draught deeply.
Thy doom awaits thee, drake."
There flickered thinly in the black
a single, baleful eye, shining,
cat-like, cruel, and crimson-irised,
and laughter resounded long in the gloom.
"Son of Man, see, thy world has fallen.
Thy fearlessness is the folly of hope.
A new age dawns; never will Man
marr again marsh, forest, or plain."
"Even if all else has utterly perished,
and I am truly alone, the last,
yet I deem yielding to despair sin;
Hope is God's holy gift!"
Image by Viktor Vasnetsov (1848-1926)
This is another in my series of attempts at Old English style alliterative poetry. See my previous entries here and here. Suggestions for improvement are most welcome. Thanks for reading!