My Short Stories

The Great Seige of Malta - 1565.

The Final Victory.

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There the mountain shook
There the people took
There the invasion told
On the massacre
Of the old.
The shepherds on the run
Those left, fatherless sons
Women folk grown frightened
By the mighty cloud 
And as the sons of the ones
Who felt the full blast
Lived to recall the past
The guns of the souls
And the ghosts of the guns
'Lived' to play their part.
And the valley wearied
By the sound
Of the shaking of the ground
As the news passed out from there
To the country wide
There around
And further afield
It travelled
Malta, starving Malta
Lived and was not shattered
And the news on the wind was scattered
And haunts the very recesses of the earth.
Young men died to give old Europe birth.
And the wind which refused to die
Simply sighed
As it blew and still blows
Across the earth.
And in the howling of the wind,
They say
Is the seed of bravery gone forth
To fill the hearts and the minds
Of young men, women too
Not yet given birth.
And with the ghosts on the wind still yearning
Which of these two
Will be given to you
In our last days
As we wait upon the storm
Which certainly comes and stills our hearts
With fear and foreboding
Will the cries of men that night
In 1565
Raise you high on a cross of rye
And instill your heart with burning
Reflect now while you might
Instil your heart with learning
Long ago soldiers dies
Without our lust discerning
If they knew us in this age
Do you think they'd still be erring
To stay atop St Elmo's fire
To bring the world
To an age so dire
When Christians count themselves as mire
To behold the cross of ferning
T'was Jesus who walked this sacred earth
And Him that we curse
The soldiers died in St Elmo's fire
To see in the 20th Century
The fire of hate not love still burning.
But we are old
Youth's grown cold
And we it may be
Who ride the crest
And not the love nest
To test the power of thieving
Though they died
We'll not be tried
For naught
I give this warning
When the mountain
And the ash
Rise up above
The grave
In the battle
At the final hour
When night still lingers
 In the morning
Satan's might
And his slaves
Destroy themselves forewarning
Not the good-willed but the knaves
Will have no chance for mourning.
The Knights of St John
Will breathe at last
Their breath of satisfaction
Not for naught was history run
Out beyond their action
They lived and died
For the Almighty Son
Whose loss gained us our station
We rise above the mighty throng
And cleanse the earth of Mephistopheles' wrong

The last days of Christian wrath
Are the best the world yet has seen
For the boys in  byegone age
And for the coming season.
We fight and wipe the earth at last
Clean of malevolence and treason.

Will you be there
Come Monday morn
To greet the glory
And the shining
To behold nature proud
All sin devoured
Jesus towered
With the heavenly throng.
Earth is not what it seems
History will culminate in freedom
The world turns
And it unfolds in the turning
To greet anew
The Life of life
As the world is bathed in the light
Of the final victory.

charlie dimech.