Thousand nights and thousands of swords below
I see a field of souls burning and bleeding
Waiting for gifts to be bestowed
But only suffering is their feeding

weaponry, wounds, warriors, and wards
willful Ws on the battlefield
yet the winning strike was that of a word
of the writer who used ink to bleed

Warrior's end is all I see
Or is the wind that's crying for all
For every soul I road with now is free
Back to their hall

Warrior's end is here
On the fields of day I see them crisp crimson
But in there motionless eyes I see no fear
And the world means nothing then