lbsilver

Upon the firs of Teutoburg    the fog enfurls the songbird’s dirge, the small beaks thrill with whist’ling note    through dew-soaked trees and autumn’s throat. The moaning wind sighs with the leaves,    and funeral pipes flute on the breeze, and round the hill there comes a groan,    while all about Kalkriese moans, wailing through remotest regions:    “Varus give me back my legions!” Immensum bellum rolls like thunder,    yon the Rhineland, shorn asunder by the red-robed Roman armies    and the brutal raiding parties and the jeering gibbet-crosses    tell the world the German losses. Black vengeance se