Not in our time, not in or land,
Far away a time we cannot understand,
A land of chaotic features,
A time of change and danger,
The people are wild and wiser,
Now we focus on this stranger.
A woman dressed for war,
Certainly not a domestic creature,
A woman whose beliefs are worth fighting for,
And fighting is her art,
She’s not a women you can double cross,
She’s too wise and will smell a rat,
She’s a hunter and a peace keeper,
You don’t want to make an enemy of this cat.
This is no Christmas play,
It’s no cartoon on channel four,
This is real blood and tears,
It’s a battle fought forever more,
It’s not what you call an easy life,
Its sweat and broken bones,
This is no dirty pantomime,
When you are using a sword in the sunshine,
She has to protect her people from the enemy,
She has to make sure her people are fed,
She knows that one careless mistake,
Will cost her dear with someone dead,
She has to protect her people from the wilderness,
She has to make sure her people have water,
She knows what has been bestowed on her,
But she is not the only king’s daughter.
What is done is done,
Once a whole now half is mine,
The words of agony inside her head,
Now she holds the sword in the sunshine.
No end in sight, no time out in this war,
Past days are long future months are more,
No time to rest no time to be free,
Just blood and sweat pain and agony,
Only one day a year is given,
To lay down the arms a pact,
A glorious day of celebration,
Only this day is the kingdom intact,
Three wise women celebrate together,
A mother and her twin daughters,
Today the girls can wear a fake smile,
Instead of thinking of slaughter,
For an instant in eternity,
The girls can see eye to eye,
Resentment and anger are on hold,
But why did our father the king have to die
After a dinner of remembrance,
After the music and the romance,
Time only just to rest before the journey home,
Time to return from the decadence,
Back in to the robes of the huntress,
The dagger and the crossbow,
Time to block out all the anger,
Got to stock up before the snow,
It’s no fairy tale from east Europe,
It’s not just a sick thought of mine,
It’s the powerful smell of survival,
And our heroine holds her sword aloft,
In the dying, autumn sunshine….
(And the wolves and other fangs look on from
Shadows in the darkened enchanted forest)