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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2085349
The Bishop says farewell to the king too battle.
"Come hither, my lords, come hither
for else the seasons plants will wither
and with sharpened teeth it will strike
- The pain of the cold winter's bite
will march down south with it's army
but, with God's grace it shan't harm thee
for the price of life is the price of living
- But should ye think before giving
to the clouds and the sky so high
think of the field where you may lie
For what proceeds to come has yet to be;
Take down my cross to the armory
then to the field where the farmer, he
knows that the fields will reap red
when summer trips into fall and bed
will both the warmth of life and sun be gone.
So farewell fair king with knights with swords so long;
To the fields of foreboding forshadows, go thee
With my blessing, and with the Love of God, go thee"

And they were the last words I said to his company and he.
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