Monday, November 02, 2009

The Sword Unsheathed

Red is the colour,
of the blood,
streaming from beheaded foes.

Red is the colour,
of the warrior's eyes,
before facing the gallows.

Red is the colour
of the evening sky,
as day draws to a close.

Red is the colour,
of his flag,
A symbol of the fight against woe.

A hero arose from a people suppressed,
questioned those who did not forget.
Marked him for sacrifice, an example to make,
of those who questioned the steerage of their fate.

Oh they mocked, with glee they cackled.
And smote his village, with fire that crackled,
and burst and thundered, as it consumed,
the lives of those chained, now lost in fumes.

A black heart was created, with the cindered dust,
that rained on ravaged land, on a fiery dusk.
He howled a last cry, and with an oath,
unsheathed the sword, enemies to smote.

Silent as the night, invisible like sin.
All knowing yet untraceable, like misty wind.
Strong as a storm, fueled by rage,
furiously calm, a warrior sage.

He fought a long battle, won a few wars,
his sword gleamed red, his face earned scars.
Retribution, eye for an eye,
left the kingdom blind, toothless to try.

Try to stop him, they did,
with methods old and new.
Bribe, seduction and other vices,
the jolly motley crew.

Impervious he proved, and the losses kept mounting.
The final battle approached, the hour of reckoning.
And he walked onto the fields, where once flowers bloomed.
The assembled army quivered, awaiting their doom.

What happened at the battle, is a lore we'll never know.
No one returned alive, neither hero nor foe.
The ground had turned red, a stench filled the air,
severed limbs scattered everywhere, in the mad stampede of despair.

They say that when he went down,
he took thirty more with him.
They say when the authority taunted him,
he spat and smiled back at them.

And that was the last that was ever heard,
of the man who never spoke a word.
Who conquered the cowards who hid behind arms,
and never fell prey to their corrupting charms.

The tale of the warrior of the unsheathed blade,
lives on in legend of the truly brave.
We whisper his name, to grant us courage,
while he rests under an unmarked grave.