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Bull Horn Grip

Eagle like, descends the road,
deep red wine potion, brusque,
as hidden eyes reckon in dusk
of this man to stare and bode.

Hours so, consent to darkness;
starry skies salute his walking,
tis maids of long mane talking,
about a raw prowess to egress.

In the tavern, at the dockside,
pipers play a monotonous mode,
destinies weave, deathly abode,
in deep spaces of brines abide.

A drink is life, glass of grog,
players render the pipes loud,
dim stars blink and a low cloud,
covers the shore in shroud fog.

Pipers monotonous tones wield,
dew drops dropp from foreheads,
Charon awaits for a spilled red,
a bull horn blade of Sheffield.

Outside steps, inside the mist,
maids weave, his life's thread,
Persephone will be his one wed,
his bull horn Sheffield, in fist.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
Added by Poetry Lover
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