The Son of the mountain

 

 

With solemn eyes he gazed

Leaving me much fazed

The one-armed soldier old

Who had a sword of silver mold

 

Resembling the Vikings of the North

Alike the tribes Germanic a lot

Golden hair that smelt of mead

In many a battle he had a lead

 

I wondereth what secret hath

Those wishful eyes-as he sat

Staring at the sky-blue river

With but a few arrows in his quiver

 

For it is our nature to resist

Fight, defeat, lose and persist

But our hilly mother knows us well

Corn, goat milk and meat she sells

 

And so, he rides off again

Crossing the Danubian markets - no bargain

Suffer we must for is this life - shaven

From the laugh filled hero’s heaven