Your gates are open – Emelie,

your turrets are unmanned;

across the gleaming moat I see

you wave with welcome hand.


No horses, arrows, swords or shields

for victory I need;

while bloodless stays the streets and fields -

your eyes I try to read.


But just the sound of your soft voice -

and I'm in shackles bound;

a happy slave that knows no choice,

who chains of gold has found.


You're waving still – I halt to choose -

as near to you I draw;

to force retreat – or win yet lose -

but choose I can no more.

emelie poem chris laverty

◄ In Despondency

A Butterfly I Thought I Saw ►


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