Boudica's Cry For Freedom
by Michael Doyle

In a timeless sense that somehow conspires,
A show of barbarians rising turned up to inspire.
Telling stories about almost heartless empires,
With moral convictions that are as hot as fire.

A sharp whip cracked on Boudica's royal skin
As if trying to save her people was a Roman sin.
A queen and her daughters were exposed to unjust might,
The Eagle claws at her honor on a blood-stained night. 

Rising high like a fire into that night's sky,
The Queen of the Iceni was too proud to cry.
The scars of whips and cruelty cannot chain
A people from rising up to break Rome's reign.

Freedom and death spin on the chariot's wheel,
The warriors fight, and the Druids heal.
Queen Boudica wished for freedom's dignity
It could only be found if Rome chose to flee.

When Celtic blood wakes, it will not sleep.
In the sacred groves, war drums reverberate deep.
Andraste's priests die in a whisper of doom,
It's as if the ancient oaks chose to conspire.

Rising high like a fire into that night's sky,
The Queen of the Iceni was too proud to cry.
The scars of whips and cruelty cannot chain
A people from rising up to break Rome's reign.

The boom of remorse spread like thunder had decided
That the Celtic Britons would fight united.
War cries were swallowed by the day's fading light,
Thousands would die that tear-filled, unholy night.

Swords swung, spears flew, river surged of blood,
As the Iceni and Roman bodies lay on the stained mud.
Eyes like ravens looked sharply into the fateful night,
It would be freedom or death and death it was that night.

Rising high like a fire into that night's sky,
The Queen of the Iceni was too proud to cry.
The scars of whips and cruelty cannot chain
A people from rising up to break Rome's reign.

However righteous, there are some battles not to be won.
Some brave dances with death's cruelty can't be undone.
The drumbeat falters, and the rhythm itself breaks,
The souls of Britannia are born for freedom or to ache.

With a last breath, a mother urges her child to run,
That battle was over almost as soon as it was begun.
Listen closely, though, and hear that the drumbeat never dies.
It can still be heard under the East Anglican skies.

Rising high like a fire into that night's sky,
The Queen of the Iceni was too proud to cry.
The scars of whips and cruelty cannot chain
A people from rising up to break Rome's reign.

(c) January 22, 2026   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved