Have you ever been to war?
And faced a face of great rapport?
Barely out the devil’s door — and,
pleading for your Miséricorde?
The worst of wounds I never wore.
A wife, a sight my eyes adored.
Those eyes unsure; they stabbed my core.
Grabbed my heart and fought for more.
So, regale me with your knightly lore;
how you waged a war and tamed the shores.
I’ve met the bloody ghost of war.
It owes no fame, no rich, no poor.
Amid the men whose glory soar,
walk gem-less rocks and empty ores,
fiendish ghouls who rage at war,
honor bound by broken swords.
Inspiration for the Poem
The Miséricorde — A long, narrow knife from the Middle Ages designed to deliver a “mercy blow” to mortally wounded enemies.
