My murdered king! My poor, poor thing. I respected him Or did I pity him? Either way, how dare they kill him?
poem by Hannah Waring
I was born underneath a tree. An oak tree with a thick and climbable trunk and lots of branches to play on. I carved my name into it. This was my home. Under this tree is where I grew up. I became lithe and tough from climbing ... Read more
My murdered king! My poor, poor thing. I respected him Or did I pity him? Either way, how dare they kill him? Read more
