Quotes about raiding, page 2
To The Bees
O! Little Bees,
You are regarded,
The little flying insects,
Devoid of common sense,
And guiding wisdom.
But I see vividly,
The hidden secrets
Of harmonious life.
All the time harnessed,
To the work assigned,
Some are employed to fetch,
The essence of perfumed flowers,
And some defend the hive,
Raiding upon the intruders,
While the others breed the young,
To enlarge the kingdom.
All selfless, sincere and loyal,
Compassionate in composing,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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An eye that burns
I love your eyes,
My eyes?
Yes, your radiant dark eyes,
Like the winter snow
With wooing gaze
In glowing ember.
The one at our first night met
A shudder of diagnostically lust symptom.
Into my jerking spine,
To what the med might refer love burst entanglement
Was not i entrapped in the web of your covetous gazes,
That now at this night under where we cleave
Our souls now bound,
By the wounded branches,
Under ease of thrushes carol.
Your eyes was doused,
A moment beyond your infant measure,
A delusional love symptom,
I to my under skin diagnosed a sentence,
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poem by Folayemi Akande
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Who Stole my magical part?
Once i was a single piece of story,
And then was added up with a bit of Magic.
I roamed about on the grass and the slums
And on the glass of hope and in salty lake.
A bottle of tear was changed to pure wine
And the glasses of wine to strong Vodka.
The magic was so sleek and the core was hot
It burnt me like a cup of water in a pot
my hair got straightened, when the magic
Was by hearted by me and filled up my nerve.
It was born in me and grew with me and then,
I thought it would die with me and get buried.
Nothing happened, never did i die or the other,
Never did the magic die and moved selfless.
Never ambitious i was, but the magic was.
Not the magician i was of that magic, i thought
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poem by Vinoop Fredy
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Osman Pazvantoglou
A begot of Bosnia Province, 'son of the guard',
mercenary in service to Wallachian Prince Nicholas
Mavrogenes, friend to Rigas Feraios Greek Bard,
revolts an army of mercenaries rebels to amass.
Freed from Ottoman Sultan Selim, acts independent,
his state recognized by Western Europe diplomats,
In 1798, held territories spread from river Danub
to the Balkan Mountains, from Belgrade to Varna.
Osman, warrior of North, fierce, in deathly defeat,
in deathly victory, honored by a Glory transient,
wins in Vidin, loses in Smederovo, fear to transmit
a new Carpathian Vlad Tepes' vindicatory punishment.
Defeats a 100,000 soldier army of Huseyin Kucuk,
ruthless warrior, raiding territories in blind moksha
fighting Sultans Ottoman, and Serbs, win, or lose
as in 1798 the Sultan is forced to make him a pasha.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Uncertainty Of Memory
my childhood
yes
MY childhood
as i am fixed
here
the line is dead
oh for a diary
but no one had told me
and no one had said
then
and all those days
kept from the ink of a pen
an itch not scratched
only shuffled faces
in a box
but do the words match?
and do the lives stitch?
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poem by Tony Sweeting
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Second Going
At the prime junction,
Where three roads converged,
They set up a statue,
In mortar and cement.
The Mahatma in loin clothes,
Supported on a staff,
With spectacles on nose,
Stood erect on the pedestal.
The oldsters passed,
Bowing their heads.
The youngsters dashed,
Screeching their horns.
The kiddies paced,
Staring at the outlandish figure.
Exposed to sun and rain,
Covered with smut and dirt,
Stood the Mahatma,
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poem by Valsa George
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Canute the Great
I'll tell of Canute, King of England,
A native of Denmark was he,
His hobbies was roving and raiding
And paddling his feet in the sea.
By trade he were what's called a Viking,
Every summer he'd visit our shore,
Help himself to whatever he wanted,
And come back in the autumn for more.
These trips always showed him a profit,
But what stumped him to know was this 'ere...
Where the English folk got all the money,
He came and took off them each year.
After duly considering the matter,
He concluded as how his best course,
Were to have an invasion of England,
And tap the supply at its source.
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poem by Marriott Edgar
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The Spitfire
‘Scramble! '
‘Take the lead, Blue Leader, '
Spat the voice on the R/T,
While the ground crew pulled the chocks
Another plugged the battery,
Then the prop was turning over
And the Merlin roared to life
As the pilot, Michael Adams,
Kissed the picture of his wife!
They had only just been married
On a sudden 36,
They had just one night together
Then raced back to face the blitz,
She to work the board, the plotter,
He to fly, and do his best,
There were twelve of them together
Flying over Sheerness!
There were Dorniers and Junkers
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Beowulf (Episode 22)
BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: --
"Have mind, thou honored offspring of Healfdene
gold-friend of men, now I go on this quest,
sovran wise, what once was said:
if in thy cause it came that I
should lose my life, thou wouldst loyal bide
to me, though fallen, in father's place!
Be guardian, thou, to this group of my thanes,
my warrior-friends, if War should seize me;
and the goodly gifts thou gavest me,
Hrothgar beloved, to Hygelac send!
Geatland's king may ken by the gold,
Hrethel's son see, when he stares at the treasure,
that I got me a friend for goodness famed,
and joyed while I could in my jewel-bestower.
And let Unferth wield this wondrous sword,
earl far-honored, this heirloom precious,
hard of edge: with Hrunting I
seek doom of glory, or Death shall take me."
After these words the Weder-Geat lord
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Young Koekemoer (in reply to A. Brodrick)
Way back in the days
of the old Transvaal republic
in the Marico district lived a young farmer
called Hans Koekemoer, who was a great horseman
and a superb marksman
who crossed many rivers with his roan horse
and owned a Martini Henri rifle
and he was a great lover, skilled and sought by many ladies
and no other guy could compete with him
but one day an impi of Matabele warriors invaded the great Marico
burning down farmsteads, raiding cattle and killing farmers,
women and children
and the farmers were called up on commando
riding out on their horses with guns in their hands
and they fought bravely against that impi.
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poem by Gert Strydom
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