Through streets where the lanterns flicker and fade,
Where wolves in the shadows like spectres invade,
Two children ran breathless, their eyes filled with dread,
Fleeing the yoke where the numbered are bred.
The masters had weighed them, had marked them as grain,
To harvest their souls for the State’s iron chain,
But freedom still whispered, though distant it seemed,
A dream yet unbroken, a land still redeemed.
The wolves closed in silent, with hunger unchained,
Their teeth bared in malice, their mercy unfeigned.
No bell tolled a warning, no watchman had cried,
No hand reached to aid them, no door opened wide.
Yet out of the dark, with a whispering tread,
A lone figure limped where the fearful had fled.
His coat bore the scars of a soldier long past,
His breath scented faintly of poppy’s old cast.
A hand touched the first beast, a stroke to its hide,
And the fire in its eye turned to ash in its pride.
A whisper, a murmur, a word half-untold,
And the next slunk away, like a cur from the cold.
The pack turned in fury, yet none dared to fight,
For the touch of the soldier was more than mere might.
One by one they departed, their howling now weak,
For the hand of the just makes the ravenous meek.
The children stood silent, their hands clasped in fright,
Yet hope took their hearts like the breaking of light.
The soldier knelt slowly, his bones stiff with pain,
And murmured, "Come swiftly, this way to the lane.
This city’s grown hollow, its soul worn away,
But beyond lies the land where the steadfast still stay.
Where wolves do not govern, where men till the loam,
And the strong guard the hearth, and the meek have a home."
Through fields newly greening, past rivers they trod,
Where hedgerows stood sentry and daffodils nod.
The farmhouse stood waiting, its windows aglow,
And there at the gate, with their faces in woe,
Two hounds came a-begging, their noses upturned,
For hands to caress them and kind words well-earned.
With laughter and kindness the children knelt down,
And kissed their new guardians, all golden and brown.
The farmer came forth with a nod and a stare,
His wife with an apron, her hands in her hair.
"The lost have come home," said the soldier in jest,
"The wolves of the city now trouble them less.
A hearth must be waiting, a meal must be made,
For labour and love are the world’s true trade.
Let silver be buried, let gold turn to dust,
For wealth without labour is folly and rust."
They washed in warm water, they ate at the board,
Where butter lay golden and bread was well-stored.
The hounds sat beside them, with tails all a-wag,
And the fire leapt high in its crackling brag.
Outside, in the pastures, the stallions ran free,
And the hawk turned in circles, a king of the lea.
The fields bore their treasure, the barns held their yield,
For the strong plough the land, and the weak take the shield.
The watchmen stood armed where the valley ran wide,
The priest lit the candles where mercy abide.
The farmer sowed barley, the soldier stood tall,
And none let the wolves cross the meadowland’s wall.
The children grew strong, with the hounds at their side,
Their hands in the soil, their hearts full of pride.
No ruler who hoards up his silver and grain,
Can rule a land starved of the strong and the sane.
So let it be spoken, and let it be known,
A land without farmers will reap only stone.
A land without shepherds will fall to the beasts,
A land without watchmen will fall to the feast.
A church without faithful is empty and bare,
And a throne without warriors is lost to despair.
So rulers take heed, and the mighty beware,
For a land feeds its young when the wolves are not there.
(By John Shenton)