Sitting in Michael's Lap
Ah, Love! -- resplendent Valkyrie
Aloft on wings of gold,
Who scans this mortal battlefield
In search of spirits bold --
All men aspire to be the prize
Of your triumphant ride;
Though none can fathom whom you'll choose
And whom you'll cast aside.
So, armored well in loneliness
With fervent hopes, we vie
To capture the attention of
Your enigmatic eye.
Your chosen join the victor's feast
Within your hallowed Hall,
And drink the liquor of your blood
That holds their minds in thrall.
They toast the rush of victory --
An end to daily strife --
And you, whose touch released them from
The battlefield of life.
But when they think their battles won,
Upon the break of day
Valhalla manifests its curse:
Once more into the fray!
By then, the hapless victims of
Your dark, immortal spell,
You force them to defend their hearts
Or face the chill of Hel:
Unyielding and eternally
Combatants battle on;
In grim profession as their heart's
Beware this deadly maiden, and
Her grandiose charade:
She guards the gates of Paradise,
But wields a bitter blade!
"Nunc lento sonitu dicunt, morierus"
(Now as I hear this bell tolling softly for another, it says to me, "Thou must die.")
[This message has been edited by Nochtdraco (edited 10-04-1999).]