I think I know,
the pain that must have come,
while fighting and dying in battles of old.
Solely from the ache in my heart.
I like to imagine,
you shoved a spear right through,
or split it's center with an axe,
cleaving it, in two.
But no,
you did more than just halve it.
You stuck the knife in,
gave it a savage twist.
Tore that wretched pump to pieces,
and then you spit,
on it.
So now I wander,
a wounded man,
no place left called home.
The only thing I'd known as such,
was the land on which you roamed.