In the tiny hamlet nestled,
by Kurt Hearth
at the foot of the castle’s ruin.
Townsfolk relate a legend,
of one ruler, claimed his own prison
When the even’s darkness reigns.
Spirit of the Regent, rises from the tomb.
In the opaque, ebony dark, patrols the bulwarks.
Shield and sword at the ready, specter in the gloom.
What pray tell constitutes, the reason?
Solitary, royal spirit, guards his camp?
A battle they say was waged.
Greedy rulers lusted, to bring this patch ‘neath their stamp.
The King rejected decree to emancipate,
his fair rule of many years.
So in ferocity and violence, battles raged.
‘Til, one day came to pass, his fears.
His loyal forces now decimated,
all weary, dejected, and battleworn.
Once proud castle, now in rubble.
So sad the plight, subjects could but mourn.
He with remorseful eye, devised final scheme,
to liberate, faithful followers, few.
In the dark of night, from corridor ‘neath the waste.
Warrior and subject all, as birds from the nest they flew.
In the dawn’s light, trumpets forecast.
The end was near, came the final fray.
With frenzied might, castle walls collapsed..
In the midst of carnage, lone, dying ruler lay.
The King had vowed to all.
His enemy would conquer, and rejoice naught.
Only heaps of rubble and waste he left.
This King claimed for his own, victory his opponents sought.