Post by Wingflight on Apr 27, 2012 7:55:09 GMT -5
I don’t really right poetry, but I had the option of doing a poem for a Humanities assignment on the Middle Ages, so I though might as well.
A Peasant’s Cry
Sunshine breaks over the hill,
The men are up, no person still.
Sunshine breaks over the dale,
No children play; 'to the King Hail!’
Sunshine breaks over the town,
No rest, no sleep ‘til fields are sown,
And even then nothing to them.
And wails rise, to cry of sorrow,
Lord’s men arrive on the morrow.
A toll of bells, a rush of feet,
Their livelihood: cows; pigs; and sheep.
Their barley cropped, bundled their wheat,
A sight that makes all their souls weep:
A culling of all Harvest’s growth,
The worth of all their work, a ghost.
Carted away their hard earned toil,
‘Good’ men left them to sink to soil.
For what use is a peasant’s cry,
When none care if you should die?
When all know you break your back,
Heaving under heavy sacks,
Ploughing through too-rocky fields,
With no assurance of your meals.
What use not falling through the ground?
Leaving this place where fear abounds.
Why not fall down beneath your feet?
As fell last Harvest’s hard earned wheat,
That which you would never taste,
Going to his Lordship’s face,
That which you worked so hard for,
Now which you will grow no more.
For what use was a peasants’ cry,
When none cared that you did die?
-------------------------------------------
Yeah. And if you didn’t know, in the Middle Ages peasants had a really bad time of it.
A Peasant’s Cry
Sunshine breaks over the hill,
The men are up, no person still.
Sunshine breaks over the dale,
No children play; 'to the King Hail!’
Sunshine breaks over the town,
No rest, no sleep ‘til fields are sown,
And even then nothing to them.
And wails rise, to cry of sorrow,
Lord’s men arrive on the morrow.
A toll of bells, a rush of feet,
Their livelihood: cows; pigs; and sheep.
Their barley cropped, bundled their wheat,
A sight that makes all their souls weep:
A culling of all Harvest’s growth,
The worth of all their work, a ghost.
Carted away their hard earned toil,
‘Good’ men left them to sink to soil.
For what use is a peasant’s cry,
When none care if you should die?
When all know you break your back,
Heaving under heavy sacks,
Ploughing through too-rocky fields,
With no assurance of your meals.
What use not falling through the ground?
Leaving this place where fear abounds.
Why not fall down beneath your feet?
As fell last Harvest’s hard earned wheat,
That which you would never taste,
Going to his Lordship’s face,
That which you worked so hard for,
Now which you will grow no more.
For what use was a peasants’ cry,
When none cared that you did die?
-------------------------------------------
Yeah. And if you didn’t know, in the Middle Ages peasants had a really bad time of it.
