by A.K. Sykora
"Come to me, bold Mary,
Now the moon is riding high,
And your suckling babe is hid in his bed;
I can hear the night owl cry.
Your innocent babe is sleeping,
The sleep of the just or the blessed,
But your lover in black armor
Never can find such rest."
The first blow that he struck her
He wounded her sick sore,
And she sank on her knees before him,
Begging, "My lord, no more."
The second blow he struck with steel
She caught the blade in her hand,
And the blood ran down from her fingers
Onto the stony land.
The third blow he struck her,
He turned the sword in her breast,
And the light went out of her shining eyes
Like a bird that leaves the nest.
"Now fare thee well, bold Mary,
So beautiful and so true;
Of all the ladies in my land
Not a one shall compare with you.
© 2007 A.K. Sykora
A.K. Sykora lives in Hanover, Germany with a
pediatrician, three cats and three unpublished novels. She still loves
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