Thieves not Warroirs

Some call them thieves,

Who under a mask of green,

Stalked their foe, 

On the hill side serene.

Upon a hill side,

Wait the warriors of old,

They wait for the path, 

Of the rich to unfold.

Disguised as shrubs,

Covered in leaves.

Hidden from the eyes,

Of even the sharpest of thieves.

For thieves they were,

Thieves of souls,

They wait for the rich,

Fearless and bold.

Arms at the ready,

Forever constant they are,

To kill another,

With poison dart.

They waited for days
Devoid of fear,

Finally through the rain clatter,

Tall footsteps they hear.

A rich man dressed in purple.

With a golden staff they see,

"Plenty of riches,

Plenty of gold for me!"

Harmless they assumed,

A sorcerer to be.

Their assault on him,

Was a mistake indeed.

An immortal wizard he was,

A wizard of the realm.

Bearded and wise,

Now angered by them.

Waving his staff,

He cursed them to lay,

Rooted to the ground,

Forever, everyday.

He cursed them to stay,

Waiting for the end,

The great old wizard,

"Master of the Realm".

He shouted, "An out rage this is,

But I will return.

Until then,

In the sun you all shall burn."

So each day and night,

In silence they cried,

As people oblivious,

Pass them by.

Upon the mountain side,

Forever  they wait,

To meet an unapproachable,

An ever distant fate.

Not being able to knock,

On neither heaven nor hell's gate.

To be fed upon,

By the cattle herd,

To provide nesting,

For a free bird.

The mountain breeze,

Combs through their leaves,

Upon their flowers will feast,

Swarms of bees.

Their families have forgotten,

They will out last,

The present, the future,

And the past.

Their seeds fall down,

And their pain will multiply,

To be lost and forgotten,

As the centuries pass by.

Many years later,

The sorcerer returned,

To greet the shrubs,

His respect they had earned.

By now their bodies will have withered,

To only their souls, peace delivered.

With a wave of his staff, they were now set free,

Heavenward they walk, onward they journey.

In debt they were, for a mistake,

Never to a sorcerer, thy dart point hate.

In the ground rooted the shrubs remain,

To face the sun, wind and the rain.

They tell of a story of the thieves of old,

Who waited long, for their path to unfold.