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I have just recently joined this club, and I would love to share a poem with ya'll. Kinda long, so be prepared.


1683               Gregory Woods


Smoke rose to the skies,

Approaching the strong gates,

Heathens full of lies, 

And with their deeds they hate.

The smoke passed the hills, 

And beyond the forest, 

The smoke, ready to kill,

Heathens siege the fortress.

Soldiers stand alone,

On the shining stone walls, 

Having the fact known, 

That Vienna shall fall.


The cannons struck the walls, 

And fallen stones rained after,

But the citadel remain tall, 

Defying the Turkish laughter.

Ashes fall to the earth, 

Fire rise to the skies,

Men shout in piercing cries, 

Is this battle for all its worth?

Where is the Christian might, 

Where is God’s power, 

When we choose to fight for right?

But instead we hide and cower.


The city has not been breached,

Though men run and flee,

The walls the Turks have reached, 

Not heeding the Austrian plea.

But walls are not the city, 

Rather the castle amongst it.

And neither the people show pity, 

With their burning fires lit.

Briggand fight beside king, 

Criminal with the royalty.

Christians, unite!

Do not passions cling, 

To brave and upright souls,

For each of you will play a part, 

In great and daring roles. 

So the Christians fought,

Among the blood-stained street, 

As all had been taught, 

To win such a glorious feat. 


The Austrians were winning,

The eagle flying once more,

Bullets and swords were shimmering, 

In that battle of bloody gore.

Then at once a crash was heard,

And the gates made way for the horde, 

Captains ordering with a word,

For men to charge with the sword.

But the Turks are driven out, 

Beyond the city gates, 

Though Austria has won this bout, 

It will not decide their fate.

No other attack is made,

Not a sally nor a raid, 

Though cannons shatter the silence, 

Turning sleep into dark violence.

Rocks tumble and powder explodes,

Soldiers cry on their death roads,

Men carry water to extinguish the heat,

So these warriors carry on their feat.


In the church the priest says aloud,

His holy prayers to Heaven.

With his mortal, fragile head bowed,

He prepares the bread unleavened. 

Every soldier in the city prays, 

To deliver them from Heathen rule.

To hammer themselves into God’s tool,

To defeat their enemies' craze.

To sow an Austrian flag to be raised, 

And to win the battle unphased,

This is what every soldier prays.

But God himself had different plans,

To make the Austrian into more of a man.

They would suffer day and night,

And be tortured with horrendous fright,

Because they fought for what was right,

This would be honorable in God’s sight.

But then the Austrians would despair,

Seeing face to face the Devil’s lair.

While cannonballs fly through the air,

The Austrian wounded is left uncared.

This is a weight to heavy to bare, 

Lord, save us from the Devil’s lair.

Only then would God give them light,

And send the Turks off in flight,

To show every man his powerful might.

So the Austrian understood with a tear,

That every man must persevere,

For each to carry his own heavy cross,

To pick up each other when one is in loss,

To encourage one who has fallen down,

To think of the eternal, heavenly crown, 

And to be put upon a royal seat,

So these godly men carry on their feat.


The Sultan in his tent,

Looks upon the city.

“This is greater than Romans at Kent,”

He said, “To which they showed no pity,

For no we kill the Roman,

And destroy the old empire,

With the arrow from the bowman,

And throw the remains to the fire.”

But then the conqueror frowned,

As he looked upon the wall,

For as he expected a cannon round,

To explode from the ball,

There was no explosion,

To reach the conclusion,

Of that city grand and tall,

For the walls did not fall.

Then the Turks shook in their boots,

Form the man who pulled out the roots.

Then there sounded a cry,

From the man who baked bread with rye,

Then there sounded a might laugh,

From the man who slayed the fatted calf.


The Austrians guarded on the walls, 

Each of them waiting for the horn,

To play its grand trumpet call,

And dawn to be reborn.

Men die from the piercing heat,

Soldiers march to the drum beat,

So these blesseds carry on their feat.


Then the sun came at last,

To relieve them of great hate,

With horse hooves prancing in the grass,

For this would be the heathen fate.


The first trumpet played its note,

As morning came from dawn,

Men with furry leopard coats,

Ready for the sword to be drawn.

Up in the Church the bells ring, 

To praise God’s mighty power,

As Poles come from the mountain to sing,

To save the forgotten tower.


The second trumpet plays its song,

As Poles lower the lance,

To bring justice to the wrong,

The Turks have failed their chance,

The Poles rush into the flanks,

Slaying the Turk with the sword,

They gallop into every rank,

To bring the wrath of the Lord.

The eagles who fly once more,

Join in unity and love,

Combine to win in combat and war,

As they soar in the sky above.


The third trumpet played its tune,

To give the king a great boone,

To defeat the Devil’s horrible will,

As Sobieski enjoys the battle thrill.

Now the winged hussars,

Ready their armor from slussers,

As they ride down the hill,

Winning numerous Turkish kills.


Then did the dark smoke vanish,

Leaving only a faint trail,

Satisfaction was given to the famished,

As they recalled the old, glorious tale. 


So let us gather around the fire,

And take each of our seats,

As we recall the song with the lyre,

And remember these saints who carried on their feat.



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50 minutes ago, Gregory Woods said:

Ever heard about the battle of Vienna?

I don't know for sure...So many battles in world history. XD


Is that the battle with Arnold Winkelreid in it?

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4 hours ago, Ky_GirlatHeart said:

Is that the battle with Arnold Winkelreid in it?

Ah, no. As the title says, this battle took place in 1683, and I looked up that Winkelreid lived during he 1300's, I think. The commanders in this battle were, (On the Turkish side) Kara Mustafa, and, (On the Austrian and Polish side) King Leopold VI and Jan Sobieski. And yes, I had to look some of that up.

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The first trumpet played its note,

As morning came from dawn,

Men with furry leopard coats,

Ready for the sword to be drawn.

Up in the Church the bells ring, 

To praise God’s mighty power,

As Poles come from the mountain to sing,

To save the forgotten tower.


[For me, the best 8 lines--such telling imagery. I keep reading and re-reading them. Memorably well done.

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