They might be few they might be thousands,
They might have set out to conquer the suns...
Their swords dripping blood of their enemies,
Whose bones sharpen their weapons with ease...
Sharpness of their blades are rendered dull,
They cannot cut through that one adamant skull...
They cannot pierce through that cold heart,
Of the one born without fear from the start...
They keep trying to shatter his soul relentlessly,
But each strike deflected time and again tirelessly...
The loss of ichor and sweat not felt as burden,
Because a warrior's spirit is never broken...
