Perched upon the hill so battered, In armor worn, torn and shattered.
Atop this hill, he rests alone, Kneeling down, his body prone.
A pool of blood surrounds his feet, Reflecting clouds, snow and sleet.
His broadsword bathed in fearless red, Telling tales of men now dead.
He sheds one tear, for men he knew, Men he loved, the boldest few.
As weakness climbs upon his back, This warrior hurt, about to crack.
He mutters soft, an ancient prayer. His lips are forming words with care.
An unknown force warms his heart, Giving him a will to start.
His sword now turned from ruthless pain To something meager, a simple cane.
He rights himself and takes a stride, Nursing his now broken pride.
Our hero makes his way alone, Stumbling on his long walk home.
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