[Portrait of a young man, Georgeone]
The Last Wordsige *
Rooted to this ground, this hill, I stand alone.
The foulest of beasts has failed to usurp the good of my life,
failed to leave me nameless to my sons.
The winged evil suffered the sting of my sword, cracked
under grip of my fists, knew the probe
of my weapon that found her unshielded belly.
Down died the worm and blood-drenched the hill.
The victories of fifty winters grey to white.
This cold blade will not pierce horrific hide
of one more sea’s sacrifice, one more night flier,
but lies down before me.
I seek my rest,
the place of my lost shoulder-companions.
But who will break my name from his breast?
Who will burn me into the earth?
Who will crowd the dirt to a mound
as I billow black to the cloud?
- an Anglo-Saxon term meaning “victory in words”