>>211791223
Hark now, good folk, to a tale stern and old,
Of warriors iron-willed and hearts grim and bold.
The year was but seven-three-two, winds turned cold,
When crescent met cross o’er the Frankish wold.
From the south came a storm—swift riders and flame,
Led by Rahman, the emir, a death-dealing name.
Through Aquitaine’s valleys his banners unfurled,
And trembled the churches of Christendom’s world.
But north stood a bulwark, a hammer in hand:
Charles of the Franks, stone-hewn from the land.
No pomp to his mantle, no silver inlaid—
Just iron resolve and a war-tempered blade.
They met upon Tours where the oak roots run deep,
Where the wind carries prayers and the ravens don’t sleep.
For seven days still as the frost-hardened moor,
The Franks held their line like the walls of a door.
Then battle broke loose with a thunderous cry,
And steel sang like angels flung down from the sky.
The faithful pressed forward, the heathen struck back,
Till blood soaked the earth and the daylight turned black.
In the midst of the fray, bold Rahman was slain,
And his men, like the mist, fled back over the plain.
No trumpet of triumph did Charles raise high—
Just silence and smoke ‘neath a war-darkened sky.
Yet that day he hammered not just sword upon shield,
But the fate of a world on that crimson-stained field.
Had he fallen, the candle of Europe grown dim,
No cross would have shone on the mountain or rim.
So drink now a toast to the war-weathered few,
Who stood firm at Tours when the old world was new.
And let bards remember, in firelight and frost,
The battle where Christendom might have been lost.
6/16/2025, 8:17:18 AM
No.211786004
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>>211786025
>>211786031
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>>211786337
6/16/2025, 8:18:15 AM
No.211786013
[Report]
>>211786064
>>211786073
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