Let This Be My Epithet

By: Rosalind Black

I have not broken a bone yet;

I have not dried my hot blood.

Death hath not spurred my bountiful hand,

Nor woven streams into a flood.

But…

But when the first battalion comes,

With filed blades and pumping drums,

Perfect droves and coiled sweat,

When my bones have broken yet,

Let this be my epithet!

Decrepitude hath not with her veil,

As black as the pocks of the Plague,

Reaped the vigour of my burgundy soul,

And left my Love ever so vague.

But…

But when the final symptoms fall,

And bile simmers in my gall,

And all my seasoned breath goes stale,

When I’m stifled by Her night veil,

Let this be thy succouring grail!

I have not fallen on swords yet,

As long as my quill will contend!

My labourers hath not bit on their verve,

And repress all the life I defend!

Ergo…

Ergo, when all is shrivelled cries,

I will stand with burning eyes!

I am the INK, unconquered yet,

Whose lyrics will please no regret,

Whose keen lip takes such joy to whet!

And let this be my epithet!