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Anescienta ©

Gordon Fjaelberg
Bridgend, Wales

Methinks I see a proud, unsettled nation,
Beset with strife, from which it must emerge
To slough the long-dead skin of its stagnation,
Or lie, forever rotting, on the verge.
Methinks I feel the winds of revolution
Blow cold, to shake my windows and my door.
Oh! Spare us, God, such moral destitution;
Proud Avalon, you're never needed more.

With mine own eyes I've seen the baying masses,
I've heard the lies their twisted hearts expound.
Through stormy seas our troubled land now passes;
Great Albion! Oh, whither art thou bound?
Arise, my land, ere you are rent asunder,
Allow no strutting traitors to the fore!
The earth is ever barren where they wander;
Proud Avalon, you're never needed more.

Methinks I sense a dark, approaching hour,
When mettle shall be tested to extremes.
What hopes shall live if once so great a Power,
Resorts to being blinded by false dreams?
Oh, children! Who would heed your lamentation
Were dwellers of the deep to mark their score?
A shadow hangs across an anxious nation;
Proud Avalon, you're NEVER needed more!

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