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Monday, September 12, 2011

Down in the Land of Marmachand

by Paul Mosher


Go ye down that path so old that leads to Darkness and the cold
Of serpent kiss and spider lair? There to the dark land of despair?


Where peasant toils with breaking back for shriveled turnip in a sack?
And Noble rules with iron glove a lightless place with little love,
in palace built on bloody sand
There? Down in the land of Marmachand?


Where lives are cheap and souls are reaped, where blood is spilt and bones are heaped;
You’ll find no bed so soft, no food too sweet, no cool to ease against the heat. No friendly eye or helpful hand, nor place to hide from slavers brand.
There, down in the land of Marmachand


Where sightless eye observes the field and spectre guards the open trail, where heart is eaten and all hopes fail. Where pelt of every sentient race doth grace the common marketplace, where magik rules a darksome land and fair companions die each by other’s hand
There, down in the land of Marmachand


Where offerings on altars fey are made before each dawning day. And wails the echo through the night put even bravest soul to flight. Where even freemen cannot truly stand, for to the Noble all must kneel
There down in the land of Marmachand.

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