In the secret woods, no human eye has ever beheld.
Through the sacred oaks, the white owl flies
Gallops, a black horse whose long mane must never be shorn
And flows a clear brook where in its slumber, the great sword lies

In the trickling fingers of the water are whispers
The echoes of weeping women
The sounds of the dying and their final cries.

Once a weapon of conquest.
Now rusted ornate metal weakening and edges worn.
Welded by a fabled monarch and his long line of sons
And coated in red velvet from evening to morn

Splendid battles through the centuries it had seen
From Babylon in Iraq to the white shores of Greece
Leaving civilizations defeated and torn

Entrusted from generation to generation
It would fade into obscurity
As did the keepers of the blade
Existing now only in tales and lore

The souls and the saber conjoined in time
Laying quietly in the water,
The sword of the conquerers will wage war no more.

Tammy M. Darby December 22, 2022.