on his dark horse, the symbol of death he rides on,
with a sword the size of his rib, the smallest but mightiest in his unit.
He comes with the hush of the evening breeze,
with courageous smiles and pride, mind you it may be his very last,
but care and worry are the last he may think of,
the night knight.
He takes in a deep breath, as his eyes take in the sight of the loot,
he intends to make riches out of the would-be captives,
now resting on their hard beds, their peace uninterrupted.
He is assured of victory, and robbing thousands of necks of their heads,
He relies on the war cries of his men, the outer source of his strength,
his mind is full of the praises and women back home,
the prize for his result, an outstanding victory.
He stands his guard, but he sees not the poisoned arrow,
straight from the tree he passed by, to the joint of his neck,
He falls from the dark horse, the symbol of death itself,
down to the ground, which awaits to swallow him,
he draws his very last breath from the breeze,
the very breeze that gave him a false promise,
a promise of victory.
The death of a night knight.
No comments:
Post a Comment