Amongst the foreign voices I think of home, and you, my English rose.
My hands grasp for the top of the mountain, my feet guided by the stepping stones.
The opressors whip, the bootlicker bullies flock to mock.
My sons! my sons will know they're from hard godly stock.
Distracted by the beauty that surrounds, but I've bargained with the future.
For treasure? Respect? Or to prove to her?
I hear the tempting sounds of the bugle, weeping of a byway paved with gold.
I must resist the itch, for the strength of the struggle must not be sold.
I reach out, the branches lend a hand, rocks try to keep me dry.
Though here I stand, an I now know why.
We must must search inside the darkness to find the light, a long stare into the abyss.
A man must feel the pain, before he feels her kiss.
So here I dare, for God and duty I go again.
To know where it is I stand, amongst the cowards and men.
Smith Shine Poetry 