• The blood of the battle,
    Strewn across the ground.
    People laying there,
    Unable to make a sound,

    One prevails over all.
    One with the bloody sword.
    He's the chosen one.
    The one that slayed the horde.

    He has lost his comrades,
    Fallen in the field.
    Now all he has left,
    Is his sword and shield.

    The dents and dings in his shield,
    Symbolize how well he fought.
    He trained in tactics,
    And that is what he was taught.

    He is a solitary soldier,
    Alone because of it all,
    So weeps he does,
    And on his knees he will fall.

    Mercy, he begs God,
    For what he has done,
    For every man he has killed,
    Every single one.

    This warrior he is no more.
    The Lord hears this man's begs and pleas.
    He listens intently until the end,
    And watches this man rise off his knees.

    The Lord, the man's diety,
    Sympathizes with him and strikes a bargain,
    One of which if not accepted,
    Will never be given again.

    The man will pay,
    For the deaths he has brought,
    But will feel,
    The one thing he has sought.

    If at all he kills again,
    What was given to show compassion,
    The Lord warned him.
    Will be taken from his possession.

    The man accepts.
    Knowing all twists and turns.
    He will live a better life,
    So long as the fire in his heart burns.

    A year later, the man sits.
    Eating dinner like a gentleman.
    For he has a wife,
    And has forgotten about way-back-when.

    All is done,
    All is brought,
    For he now has that one thing,
    That happiness he has sought.