Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 27, 2004 12:40:05 GMT 1
This is perhaps one of the earliest examples of a piece of work created by someone involved with a TRPD project group that we still have available amongst our resources. Despite its age, it seems as applicable today as it did then. - Al.
‘Lone Wolf’
1946 – 1971
A Vietnam veteran, and one of the three original founder members of the Triune Writers’ Group, Lone Wolf wrote these words as a ‘chant’ to be performed to the accompaniment of tribal drums. Within months of doing so he was dead - a victim of a heroin overdose.
Today his spirit lives on through his words and art, and his memory through the legacy he left behind. He died that others might live.
Painted Warriors
Once the earth was clothed in darkness
There was thunder in the air
And fire upon the mountains
Seas boiled, land was bare.
Then as the years passed slowly
Through the elemental war
The living reached the land
From a very troubled shore.
Colour came to barren plains
Winged creatures filled the sky
The forests grew in harmony
And mountains reached up high.
Then came a race of people
With spears in their hand
These were the painted warriors
Their culture was the land.
They blended to the rhythms
Of the seasons passing by
And life to them was simple
You’re born, you live, you die.
They found beauty in creation
And honoured what they saw
They were the painted warriors
They lived by tribal lore.
Yes, tribal was their nature
The fittest would survive
By skill and savage training
They kept themselves alive.
Then there grew a race of people
With a culture that cried ‘Greed!’
Who over-ran the earth
And planted poisoned seed.
The tribes the Christened ‘heathen’
Barbarous and bad
And they preached death and destruction
And they turned the whole world mad.
Now they paint the air with poison
Watch the crimson grass unfold
And the earth cries with the stories
That never will be told.
They tell you ‘slavery is over’
That people can be free
All you have to do is fight
The likes of you and me.
And the sick, the dead, the dying
In the politician’s pit
Only dream about the glory
And what they’ve seen of it.
There lie the painted warriors
In black and brown and green
Forgotten heroes in a world
Where everything is clean.
In every town and city
People struggle to survive
By cunning and deception
They keep themselves alive.
Now we are the painted warriors
And it’s time to make a stand
Contaminated mercenaries
Make elemental war
And the living
Leave
The land.
© T.R.P.D. – 1971 – Paul A.
‘Lone Wolf’
1946 – 1971
A Vietnam veteran, and one of the three original founder members of the Triune Writers’ Group, Lone Wolf wrote these words as a ‘chant’ to be performed to the accompaniment of tribal drums. Within months of doing so he was dead - a victim of a heroin overdose.
Today his spirit lives on through his words and art, and his memory through the legacy he left behind. He died that others might live.
Painted Warriors
Once the earth was clothed in darkness
There was thunder in the air
And fire upon the mountains
Seas boiled, land was bare.
Then as the years passed slowly
Through the elemental war
The living reached the land
From a very troubled shore.
Colour came to barren plains
Winged creatures filled the sky
The forests grew in harmony
And mountains reached up high.
Then came a race of people
With spears in their hand
These were the painted warriors
Their culture was the land.
They blended to the rhythms
Of the seasons passing by
And life to them was simple
You’re born, you live, you die.
They found beauty in creation
And honoured what they saw
They were the painted warriors
They lived by tribal lore.
Yes, tribal was their nature
The fittest would survive
By skill and savage training
They kept themselves alive.
Then there grew a race of people
With a culture that cried ‘Greed!’
Who over-ran the earth
And planted poisoned seed.
The tribes the Christened ‘heathen’
Barbarous and bad
And they preached death and destruction
And they turned the whole world mad.
Now they paint the air with poison
Watch the crimson grass unfold
And the earth cries with the stories
That never will be told.
They tell you ‘slavery is over’
That people can be free
All you have to do is fight
The likes of you and me.
And the sick, the dead, the dying
In the politician’s pit
Only dream about the glory
And what they’ve seen of it.
There lie the painted warriors
In black and brown and green
Forgotten heroes in a world
Where everything is clean.
In every town and city
People struggle to survive
By cunning and deception
They keep themselves alive.
Now we are the painted warriors
And it’s time to make a stand
Contaminated mercenaries
Make elemental war
And the living
Leave
The land.
© T.R.P.D. – 1971 – Paul A.