A tiny feather small and soft makes little impact when it floats aloft, ten thousand feathers make a bird which sings out loud and can be heard, it’s hard to be a single feather but we are strong when we fly together
What worries the weapon more than peace? That sheath that seeks to still its story. When kings grow old and tire of schemes And children dream no more of glory.
What becomes the warrior When heroes live only in song? When there is no one left to conquer And every battle has been won.
When the wind no longer speaks of steel And mountains have forgot our name. When all that's left are memories Of the fallen, Of the shame.
Worry not though for the blade. Spare no thought toward the sword,
Everywhere I look I see vanity No matter how much I want to avoid it I turn on my screen & it's staring at me Every scroll is another one, head full of air with perfect skin. I don't fit in.