once stood a great warrior

of malice and pride

with no battle too bloody

for his hungering eyes 

 

his blade, sharp and stained

stood tall at his side

left in its wake

only dead men would lie

 

then, in the distance 

that red, setting sun

gave a glimpse to the man

of the deeds he had done

 

the crimson and black

was all he could see

he saw not the flowers

nor the bushes, and trees

 

for the death-stained dirt,

and the limbs at his sides

were the very same sight

that made the man cry

 

he wept for his sins

and all he had killed

it brought his heart to a stop 

and his breath to a chill

 

in his last moments he lay

and gave his up his fight

he battled no more

and gave way to the night

 

now dull, lies his blade

wrought deep in stone

and far from his weapon

the man rests, alone