And swiftly o’er the shady marshes-they race-,
Their fierce cadence ever piercing and frightening
The soft wail of wild-eyed Whites travels a steady pace
The dark, its ghouls ever becoming are harrowing
His deadly mask, a skull of jaded hatred repines
Scaling the murderous wave of rancor
And behold, the triumph of Yali still shines-,
Yet the morning grove wailed bodily rupture!
Where doth the sun shine in Balaklava?
When doth the moon kiseth the brim grasslands?
Her heart is leaden with the call of mania-,
Wherewith lieth thine heart; your beauteous sands?
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Submission Name: The Triumph of the Light Brigade
