A poem reminiscing about cold childhood mornings and the warmth of the wood stove.
“Father!” she cried, banging on the doors. “Father, can you hear me?” She waited, but no answer came from the church. “Please, Father,” she cried again, “we need help in the village! The men have not returned, and the Elders will do nothing! Won’t you open the door?” Jehanna banged harder but to no avail. No matter how loudly she knocked or cried aloud, the priest did not come.
A poem written with a syllable pattern of 5-7-5-7-7...for all the pagan souls who have lost the voice to sing.
Freedom isn't something we're given. It's something we have to fight for - not once or twice, not just when it's convenient or when it affects us personally - but all the time. Freedom is something that, if you grow complacent, can slip away from you before you know it.
A poem about two lovers.