Medpoet.

I can Tell

I can tell of the sorrow written,
Of the shreds of love beaten,
Of nothing left to be eaten
And mine form bed-ridden.

I can tell of the smell,
The tail of my worthless shell,
Sounds of death’s tolling bell,
Whose time I cannot tell

Blown was the magic wand,
For a man blind as sand,
Weary and weak to stand
On the once trodden land,

I can tell of the shaken foes,
Jumping as sadness goes,
Of fellows in silent repose,
Each willing to lose his toes.

I can tell of the hoped end,
The mercies that God doth send,
To a mortal about to bend,
Sure He did defend.