The Knight and The Temptress

The clang of shields. the flash of swords,
The roar of boots, the march of hordes.
The smell of the dead, the castle that burnt,
The cry of the wounded, the widows that mourned.
The war ravaged on as the knights pushed ahead,
The palace was seized as the praetotians bled.

The Knight fought on, victory wasn't far,
The resistance grew thin, he reached the royal bar.
He dropped his guard, and marvelled at the sight,
A praetorian appeared and asked him for a fight.
They charged and swerved, ducked and lunged,
Their fingers bled as their swords clashed.

They fought on and on, as the day came to a close,
The arms tired, the muscles worn, as the moon rose.
It was almost dark when the praetorian fell,
He was a brilliant fighter, the Knight could tell.
The battle was over, the castle was taken,
The Knight collapsed to the ground, numb and broken.

Then came a new morning, as the dead were buried,
There were smiling faces again, as a new kingdom flourished.
The Knight lay there, still dreaming of the war,
Of the swords and the spears, that caused many a scar.
His groans and words the other knights could hear,
As he lay there struggling while they did cheer.

It wasn’t long before the Knight woke from his dream,
He saw a lovely dame, carefully tending to him.
Her eyes shone, her skin was a milky white,
Her locks were golden, o what a lovely sight.
The Knight stared at her, the lustrous charming dove,
He could not speak a word, he was already in love.

‘Who are you?’ he breathed at last,
The dame sat still, mending his fingers fast.
He held her hand, and caught her eyes,
And saw her face, bright as sunrise.
‘Who are you, o charming girl?
Why do ye tend to me, o kindly pearl?’

The temptress shook her head, as she stood
And hid her feelings as much as she could.
‘I m a maiden’, her eyes filled with dew,
‘Daughter of the praetorian, the one you slew.
I am the orphaned princess of Spain,
Hail, o Knight, Miranda is my name.’

The Knight bowed down as the princess turned,
He wept in grief as his heart churned.
The temptress was gone, the one he loved,
The battle was won, but yet was lost.
The Knight cried out in grasp of pain,
And the loss of a love that went in vain.