Long become the shadows,
Which weigh upon the walls,
Where jagged stone stands tall,
And throned by Ivy as it crawls.
Sentry's line the battlements,
Their bodies clad in mail,
With bows and sharpened arrows,
Which all but seldom fail.

The crickets and the bull frogs,
Call out but no one heeds,
All Eyes are fixed upon,
The rising glow beyond the trees.
A cloud of dusted kicked up muck,
And the subtle sounds of steeds,
The familiar sounds of banner men,
Hellbent on wicked deeds.

The children scream
With a fiendish struggle,
As they're torn from dreams
To a squeamish huddle,
They're rushed to the keep
Through the streets and puddles,
As whispers weep of treats and cuddles,

Every sconce is now ablaze,
And the bridge is up and the pitch is made,
Both him and her with tankards raised,
In a boast, they toast to happy days.

A stout parade, and a maze of tents,
A thousand strong with ill intent,
As the hours passed, they grew,
From strength to strength.
And troops in fitted boots were placed
In strategic predetermined places,
Faces hooked and bent from hatred,
Stood in line, as if sedated,

A shining sea of silk like mail,
Reflects the moon in a milky pale,
A sight which could overcome the frail,
But even to the keenest eyes,
It could make them fault and fail.
A sea of steel, as sharp as nails,
The kind...