A gleam of steal in the night,

into flesh the sword bites.

The clang of armor and the shout of pain,

blood is spilled and ground is gained.

The sharp edge of life and death,

the Reaper is nearer with every breath.

Quick of foot and sharp of eye,

of you it’s required lest you die.

Sword to sword, or hand to hand,

in an army, or a roving band.

Whether master or neophyte,

young or old,

the warrior will battle beneath the moon’s fold.


Disclaimer: The imagery in my post is not mine and I have no artistic claim to it.


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