I admit, its a fake title that I simply made up. To my knowledge there is no such category as Carthagenian Literature. However, I have decided there have been too few good new titles in the Carthagenian Literature category and, therefore, I have completed a new poem as my modest contribution. The poem is, as of yet, still titleless.
It's a story of brawn, of cold and heat, sometimes of hunger. This is sort of a nod to the old Conan type warriors, the Hannibals and nameless marchers who marched and hacked and burned their way across the ages of history. From a conquering army, of course.
I've been thinking a lot about Poe, so my verbal doodles have been somewhat dark including, "Sewing the devil's whirlwind is a fractured bloody art." and "The sorrow of a sparrow forms the fletch of Hades' arrow." I mean who even knows if Hades had a bow .. but I digress.
I am Romans, Vikings, Vandals
Mongolians on the plain
My march is long
My heart is strong
The tongue I speak is strange
I wear sandals, armor, helmet
Carry carbine, mace and shield
I’ve bayonet
Or Spectre’s threat
Upon the battlefield
I march for king and sovereign
For fiefdom and for pharaoh
Reap what’s sewn
I crack your bones
And feast upon your marrow
For age and age before me
And age after I’m gone
You’ll speak of me
My victory
And recount what I've done
It's a story of brawn, of cold and heat, sometimes of hunger. This is sort of a nod to the old Conan type warriors, the Hannibals and nameless marchers who marched and hacked and burned their way across the ages of history. From a conquering army, of course.
I've been thinking a lot about Poe, so my verbal doodles have been somewhat dark including, "Sewing the devil's whirlwind is a fractured bloody art." and "The sorrow of a sparrow forms the fletch of Hades' arrow." I mean who even knows if Hades had a bow .. but I digress.
I am Romans, Vikings, Vandals
Mongolians on the plain
My march is long
My heart is strong
The tongue I speak is strange
I wear sandals, armor, helmet
Carry carbine, mace and shield
I’ve bayonet
Or Spectre’s threat
Upon the battlefield
I march for king and sovereign
For fiefdom and for pharaoh
Reap what’s sewn
I crack your bones
And feast upon your marrow
For age and age before me
And age after I’m gone
You’ll speak of me
My victory
And recount what I've done