Spear of life, crown of virtue,
blood relaxed on slab of hate.
To the wind, in raised agony,
metal shards crush bone and fate.
There the light, the helmets glint,
forsaken he, in hour of shame.
But never bowed, in half life saved,
to the skies, and not the flame.
Parched soul, but never succour,
bitter taste of blood and brine.
Feels the tug, the Lords right seat,
one last breath, now is the time.
His spirit flees, mountain cracks,
from quaking mighty land and whence,
his body gone, neath tomb of stone,
to rise again in three days hence.