The Ancient Tale of Wind and Pines

Part I

In ancient times beneath the pines

A poet wrote down all his lines,

That last so long and left us here.

The winds that blew, the crackling woods;

But he was left by fear.

As he sat there and seized the day,

A darken rider passed his way.

Whose shadow covered all the ground:

Not even now the poet frowned.

Unshaken was the old bard's will,

He would not flee, he would stand still.

His beard was wafting in the wind;

And gazing at the rider's horse:

With shattered reins, so sable skinned.

'Who are thou, that do not flee?

The last who dared is no more scared –

His ending was to me.'

The wise, old man did not reply

Nor did his body shiver.

He took his pen and spoke a sigh

As unfazed as a river.

The rider drew his dreadful sword:

The grandeur of a lofty lord.

He struck out for his mighty strike

And hit the pine with the blade's pike.

No blood was shed but nonetheless

The rider cut a single tress.


And suddenly the bard replied.
It seemed as if he just did bide.
He left his sheets, spoke out his rhymes:
A wisdom gained in former times.


'Those lords who dwell in shades

Shall see that their doom bates.

Thy sword will burst, thy perished horse

Will leave you on thy cherished course.

Thus dusky dooms will turn to fates.'

Part II

The words so wise and also clear

Did not affect the the stranger's ear.

He unrolled his bloody, moistened coat

Dismounted his atrocious horse:

The long sharp sword nearby the throat;

A lethal as impressive force.

The branches on the forest soil

Accompanied the acerous ground;

They cracked and broke and he did spoil

With every stride he walked around.

The Rider looked into his eyes:

'There was a fane,' quoth he.

'The monks performed their daily rites,

and neither they feared me.

The moon arose upon the right,

Was anchored in the sky.

The night, ablazed with glaring light, –

Revealed its sanguine dye.

They prayed and prayed but moaned,

Their former faith was gone.

And none of them stood still but yon

Who held the flute he owned.

Notched runes upon his flute,

Arcane but also known.

Their gold and wealth was all my loot,

And guilt should be my own.

The wind blew straight inside,

The runes began to glow.

He played his flute along –

So I shot him with my bow.'

The trees began a sad lament.

So oak and larch and pine were meant

To seek the caitiff in their woods

And prey on him, get back the goods:

'Oh madness of the earth,

Thy vessel is this man,

Whose pride diffused the mirth

in here, abhorrent was his plan.

All mighty in this world,

Each river that is curled,

And every beast from West and East

Will hunt thee till thy shadow's ceased.

Our wraith is wroth and thou will writhe.

Oh mother earth of massive size,

Sin and sorrow had begun

Hand in hand, the moon and sun

Are weeping till their light is done.'

Part III

The rider's and the poet's eyes

Were resting like dread in disguise.

And as a match of novel chess,

Each move too far or step too less,

Leads to the ground or to the skies.

And lies, must every man confess.

'Wind and earth was chasing me –

Down, down the road.

Down to the depths of agony.

No happiness, no single ode

Was played for me for sanity.

When the cold of winter comes

Starless nights will cover day.

Chasing me with dreadful drums

On my atoning way.'

The trees began to move;

Convened in angled rows.

And stem to stem, just like a wall

Their blooming crowns arouse.

The way was shut behind,

The vicious path led forth.

With no clear hint of south and north

The end was hard to find.

The scorching sun sank on the right,

The moon was lost and dimmed.

And with the rain the shadows came

And light was out of sight.

The pitch-black maze and disarray

Caused lunacy in different ways:

The rider could not see but hear –

The darkness made him fear

And flinch – Oh he was scared indeed.

Just striking lightning lit his route.

Creatures, of strange breed and brood

Were soon behind his stallion's rear.

Thunder was around the knight

Which echoed all across the maze.

Was it a hound, some creature's sound?

No single light was there to blaze.

He drove his horse across the roots

'Faster, faster', were his suits.

And so he spoke, and so he spoke,

But just the rain wept o'er his scope –

Like noises of some crooning flutes.

While looking onwards, he beheld

A far bright spot right at the end.

A heat: scorching, blazing, as it swelled,

A burning curtain blocked his road.

No single breath the rider spent,

A brave jump and his life abode.

The wooden maze was all aflame.

His coat and gloves were all the same.

He rolled himself into the dirt

 To quench his gloves, his riven shirt.

Yet he was still alive,

And part of this portentous strife.

The poet, still leaning on the pine,

Biased by Byron's Weary Nine,

Was noticing the smoky smell

And saw his parched and pitted shell.

'As I passed the burning wall'

the horseman said with feeble voice,

'Sunk on the ground I tried to crawl

To stay alive and find a way

Out of doom and made a choice.

Straight on my knees I tried to pray.'

'Gentle mercy, please be mine.

Let me know a better way!

I will learn from time to time

And shun bad traits and every fray.'

Rustling noises came along,

The rider drew his blade

To battle creatures weak or strong

And took his shield as aid.

The blooming booms in front of him

turned brown – began to wither.

He took his sword and he did trim

And called his horse: 'Come hither!'

Part IV

The poet tried to talk for once.

 The rider gave no more response.

The bard stood up, began to speak:

His voice was calming as a creek.

'No need to fear but listen now

These ancient realm is not thy foe.

Put down your sword and take advice

Those things you've seen were all just lies.'

Hence the rider moved behind.

His hand retained his blade.
He stayed his sword and kept his mind

Though flutes, at once, were played.

'Be this a ruse?', quoth he.

The wind blew from the lee

And on the tree, right on the stem

A rune glowed like a gem.

'I have to say, my story though

Is complex even if thou know

Why thou are here, and I'm with thee .

This riddle will be solved, thou'll see.

My story, fellow, as thou'll see

Starts long ago across the sea.

Been wandering on foreign soil.

My hall was grand, my blood is royal.

And while my farther ruled the land,

With fright and terror used as tools,

I disobeyed all of his rules 

wherefore I have been banned.

My native woods lay on the west

Their trees and groves and all the rest

Was dear to me: I couldn't wrest

Myself, and took the seeds for all the best

To plant a home, a stable nest,

Lest I forget my fateful quest

To convert the shades: so be my guest.

Free thyself of vicious zest.

Now listen what I have to say;

Thou will never be the same old way.

These ancient woods became my home

Where all my vassals still do roam.

On my command they seek the damned

And lead them to me: The one who's banned.

A ruse thou said

So may it be

And so we met

To set thee free'

The rider, faced with tales untold,

Was no more sure what he behold.

He stumbled, tripped, went to is knees;

What curse or spell did he release?!

The poet walked around the knight,

His hands were pointing to the rune

Which glowed and glistened in its light:

The silver brilliance of the moon.

The unknown sign showed THURISAS –

“This rune stands for the monk and us

Since we all walked the same old way

Of knights and lords in constant fray.

Steel and fire forged thy blade,

Sledge and anvil formed its shape

Which sharpness led the plan you made:

A tool of death rests in its chape.

Thy affliction has a reason

As thy doings were pure treason.

As a knight thou took an earnest oath

But then thou did just raid and loathe.

Thy heart soon filled with bitterness –

Thy grudge became so rigorous.

Sanscoer is thy precious name,

I know thee long and fairly well.

Those monks are fine and thou're the same

As neither harmed is thy ragged shell.'

The rider looked down to his coat:

No riven cloak encompassed his throat

And clean of blood were hands and chin –

So was his armour and his skin.

'I did not act in cattiness

But there are things I must confess.

As since thou've entered my dear realm

Of oak and pine and ash and elm,

Thy eyes behold elusive minds:

A rope of sand is all one finds.

Every monk: a phantom's face,

A mirage spawned, without a trace.

Thou slashed at air and misty haze:

Thou never really fell from grace.

Thou only have one choice to make.

Regard thyself and see

What made thee blunt and ache.

Take a look – TAKE A LOOK AT ME.'

He put forth his hand in peace.

The rider was stunned, on his knees.

He gazed, behold the poet's grace

And took his hand to find his place.

The storming wind streamed to the bard

The massive blast thus hit him hard.

The branches cracked and fell

A bell, afar: A knell

Was ringing and the rider rushed,

Slashed at the limp which forthwith crushed.

So did his sword, it broke apart;

Without his blade began the start.
His horse was killed by spikes of wood
And then broke down where Sanscoer stood.


The winds declined,
The stars aligned
And Sanscoer stood next to the bard
Who held him without disregard.


The rider's downfall has been foiled.

A knave he was, a craven's soul.

He saved the bard, remained unspoiled

And found his long pined haven's goal.