Poem: My Hovel
My Hovel
In
my putrid hovel the fire burns low
For
sustenance I have a pressing need
This
wrenched meat has died days long gone
But I
am starving, therefore I must feed
This
bloody war has drawn on far too long
This
horrid thing has robbed me of everything
Where
are my sons, so youthful and so strong
They,
struck down by a wretched ox hide sling
Armed
with copper spears we marched off to war
I
had never made it to the battle
An
illness struck me, I could fight no more
Left
behind, my people slaughtered like cattle
All
because they don’t worship the same gods as us
Now
who cared, the gods have forsaken us
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