The Knight

A small epic about a knight

O'er the mountains and the plains,
Through the oceans and the seas,
Our great freedom shall doth reign.
Moreover that which thine eye hath not see.

Inso a place of peace and tranquility,
Inso a time not of battle,
There is your waiting station, which is wild and free,
That of which is the time for prattle.

But when the ram's horn doth note,
There shall be no more time for games and such,
There shall be no more time to brag and gloat.
That of which is the time of readying much.

Into thine battlearmor thee must glean,
In which thou shalt fight for life and limb.
For any future safety is false-seen,
Thy time is now to protect thy kin.

Onto thy valiant equine thou doth mount,
Shield and sword at thy side,
O'er thy army's steeds thy must count,
Before thineself shall ride.

Thy pulls out thy trusty blade,
Shining in the early sun,
The silver metal hath yet to fade,
Thy steed bested by none.

Thy charges gallantly into the blood of the field,
Taking as many lives as thy can while thy goeth.
But thy enemy is in smarts, and they hath yet to yield.
Thy steps back for a second to catch thy breath.

What thy sees is a horrifying tableau of thine army's bloody claret,
Thy horse is spooked by an assailiant and thy falls to the earth.
You stay still as if dead, the prior scene trying to forget.
The battle soon doth end, but you know not to return to thine berth.

Thine armor gleams in the setting twilight,
Relaying your position to the rival.
One finds thee and takes out his sword, glistening in the skylight.
Thy reacheth for thine, thy cost if not: survival.

Thy hands close on an empty sheath.

Thee looks around frantically, spotting thine sword a few feet away.
By this time, thine enemy hath begun the drop of leverage on their own.
Thy trieth for the hilt, but misses, leading thine hand astray.
Thine enemy's blade hitting so close to bone.

Thy grunts as thy armor takes the force,
Thy opponent's blade easily glints.
Thy is given enough time to change thy hand's course,
Grabbing thine sword by the leather prints.

By the second blow, thine sword matches.
Thine fiend is stunned and stumbles in retreat.
He throws his sword at thee, which thy catches.
Thy seeth the enemy run in what looks like defeat.

A smile breaks upon thy face as thy watches the foes go.
You begin to take off thy armor as they disappear behind the ridge.
But in an instant, you feel a piercing sideblow.
Thy looks over and sees a bowman on the bridge.

Thy life flashes before thine eyes as thy falls for the last time to the cold ground,
Thine life slowly ticking to an end.
Thine knew that this time, thy would not escape from the down.
And through an angel, God hath to thee a few more moments lend.

Thy breath becomes harder and thy sight becomes clouded,
And thy knew thine time hath come.
Thy closeth thine eyes for eternity, ridding them of the last scene shrouded.
And with thy last effort, begins to softly hum.

In those last minutes, thy sang the song of thine ancestors,
Keeping thine promise to the deceased.
Thine hath done the damage thy was capable of to thine contestors,
And finally, thy spirit was released.