The Lancer

Atop his scarred mare,
Beside his beleaguered comrades,
Hussar and dragoon and cuirassier,
The lancer wipes muck from his uniform azure,
Harvest of a cold morning scrap,
Barely a mile taken,
A score of lives paid,

And the general sips his wine,

A reluctant warrior,
A soldier true and father twice,
Thrall to the kings coin,
Yet the battery fire recommences,
And the order to charge is given,
A L’attaque!
The flagging lancer blasts ahead,

And the general sips his wine,

Shrapnel and flesh collide all around his advance,
The lancer picks out his mark,
The grist for his lance,
Akin to a Romeo delivering his final romantic plea,
Direct to the foes heart,
Inspecting his handiwork he saw his victim to be no more than fourteen summers,
Somewhere a mother wails,

And the general sips yet more wine.

The Dervish

He is whirling,
Devout in his movements,
The aches in his legs mean nothing,
Physical exertions to praise the upper,
Let the spiritual ecstasy never cease,

Spin and praise,

Upon the sunburned steps of Istanbul,
His ebony robes appear a turbine,
The whirling continues,
A trance-like tornado of limbs,
Arousing his soul,

Spiral in wajad,

This Dervish and his euphoric twirl,
Is closer to immortality than I could dream,
Each priestly rotation brings further enlightenment,
The whirling shall not stop,
Not until salvation bears its head.

Galvarino

In the new world,
Upon the fields of Lagillas,
A warrior of the Mapuche,
Once defeated,
By the spanish governors soldiers,
Felt shame like a sabre to the heart,

This man of rebellion was punished most severely,
Disrespected even further,
For his insurrection,
His hands were removed,
Out poured blood and fury in streams,
Sent home as a warning,

Returning to his people and chief,
He begged to be sent back to war,
Hands newly fastened with double blades,
Thirsty for Spaniard blood,
Becoming an instrument of revenge,
A warror transformed into a weapon,

To protect his native lands,
The governor would meet his new hands,
Or his teeth.

Daji

Daji was an evil woman,
Once a simple concubine,
With a beauty that erred on the line,
Between angelic and infernal,
Obsidian hair,
And femme fatale eyes,
Lips of jincan,
With a hidden craving for spawning torment,

Lover of a king,
Corruptor of a king,
A nation cracked,
As the state fell beneath one woman,
A barefoot farmer screamed,
His feet removed in morbid curiosity,
Peasants lamented,
When the paolao was ignited,

She and her king were overthrown,
By a people exhausted by torture,
Even their armies turned against the cruelty,
Execution was the minimum sentence,
Put to death by a new era,
By beheading or by pyre,
I am not entirely clear,
But evil cannot truly perish,

Now something altogether more ethereal,
A vulpine spirit,
Both in appearance,
And in temperament,
A nine-tailed fox,
The shrines were burned,
Erected by demented fox spirit cults,
But still her malice permeates,

Even to this day.

Rasputin

I remember a tale,
Far to the east,
In the cold empire,
A plan was produced,
To kill a mystic,
A holy man,
A healer,
A strannik,
A problem,

After previous attempted failed,
By a peasant madwoman coerced,
A new scheme was required,
An invite to a house,
With a blade biding its time,
Cups and bottles of venom,
Three gunshots of hate,
A lover of a queen,
Buried in the snow.