Sweet Dreams, O Clara!

The enemy charge calls,

For courage, for valour,

To battle I must depart,

To victory I must ride.

 

Victory shall be mine, O Clara!

 

As I shall mount my stallion,

A glance i shall cast over my back,

Towards my home, my kingdom, my kin,

To protect all, I shall ride,

 

To battle I shall ride, O Clara!

 

Raging in my heart,

A flaming inferno, the fire of our ancestors;

I am the ruler,

I am the guardian.

 

To my throne I shall stand, O Clara!

 

In the eyes of my soldiers I see,

The fear of fresh blood,

The fountains of our pride,

Shed with honour, shed for glory.

 

I shall bleed for my throne, O Clara!

 

‘Twill be monsoon,

Of arrows and spears,

The thunder of our swords,

Echoing among the metallic rings of fury.

 

There shall be music, O Clara!

 

Paltry dreams shall grow,

Majestic inheritance shall come

To our son, as he comes of age,

To glory, the paths shall he pave.

 

For his sake, I fight, O Clara!

 

Ten years afore,

I crossed swords with the Huns,

The head of their captain

Did rest on my blade;

 

With fear the invaders tread,

For a decade, peace prevailed;

Save the Spaniards,

Whose blood cleansed my sword.

 

I am a man to be feared, O Clara!

 

My feet firm on the stirrups,

With spurs sharp and stern,

I shall race my stallion,

Into the heart of the enemy.

 

Plunge my sword, O Clara,

Into the heart of the enemy!

 

Melancholy is war’s mate,

Disaster may befall,

My kin may be taken,

I may fall.

 

To you I shall return, O Clara!

 

Coming dawn, I shall ride,

To death or to victory,

A puppet in the hands of fate,

Led by the strings of destiny.

 

And if I return,

With spasmodic breath,

Bathed in scarlet,

I pray, let not my son see me;

 

O Clara!

Tell him, in battle I perished,

To protect the legacy,

The glory of our throne,

Guide him to glory, guide him with pride.

 

Sleep evades me tonight,

I hear the grunts of my soldiers,

The sobbing of their wives in the air,

As they bade farewell, for some, the last.

 

Look after them, O Clara!

 

The fire shall burn,

The spirit of our kingdom,

Shall overwhelm them,

It shall devour them.

 

To battle I ride, O Clara,

To victory I ride, O Clara,

Armed with valour, led by honour,

My sword shall conquer!

 

Sweet dreams, O Clara!

Adieu.

 

Note: The poem is a letter from a king to his queen who is sleeping on the eve of a battle to which he is to depart.