'Though common villagers were the threat,
He had not fear, nor would he fled,
When all they did, was outnumber him,
'Till every head fell, within his blade's skim.
Shadowy frames of those undead,
Drew closer together, in clicking sounds met,
Not dragons nor kings, as swift as they were,
Even on wings,
Could ever mimic this stallion's feared galloping.
And tall stood He, in the torn-up skies,
Which had drawn together, with wings angled uprise,
No sun would fall, and adorn his face,
For He was all left, of this powerful race.
|
|
