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A Bardic Poem

They call us weak,
Shadowed in their glory.
The scum of Arathnos,
Second in such a position
Only to the Sh'kur
We occupy their space,
Breathe their air,
Unworthy by our lack of strength.
But what is strength truly,
If not part of the mind.
Endurance is lasting while
The muscles of flesh tear.
We shelter ourselves from those who kill,
Hide from those with lust to slay,
Avoid contact with such when life seems short,
Lose heading on the road of Peace as we follow our laws,
Protect rather than kill.
Never for our own gain.
Yet live amidst the war,
Suffer on dire nights,
Stalked by hidden enemies at all turns,
Weak in body,
Yet embody power in another way.
Truly disadvantaged in this world,
Never aiding the deadly enemies we live with,
True love with one forbidden.
We are held back,
Our stature no less than those around us,
Yet called weak.
You call me weak, believing it to be true.
You call me weak, believing I cannot stand my ground.
Believing you're strong.
That you can beat me.
That you are superior.
You call us weak because in truth you fear.

-Branye

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