The Troubadour

How my talents are wasted on such base, brute butcher work! Mine is the grace of subtle swordsmanship, not heavy-handed cleaving. Mine is the ecstasy of penmanship, not this rote boorish torture. Ah well. All to the greater glory. I am a warrior, it is true, but I fancy myself part of the ancient tradition of the troubadour knight. I therefore must scriven to keep my mind sharp during these bloody doldrums. In a half hour, I must rend a knave’s flesh until he offers up the truth. But for now, I will try my hand at romantic verse. MY GARDEN Before you, my passion was a root-bound garden choked with weed. Before you, love was a cemetery devoid of seed. But now your name bestows joy to the gloom. Your name, once uttered, brings my garden to bloom. For you, O celestial daughter I water my garden with the wine of slaughter. Romance by the blade, My enemies unmade. In every cold ear, I whisper your name. And so you haunt the hearing canals of the dead. Like the sea in a shell in a sandy bed. I do believe this is my finest verse yet. Sir Ozur