Standing on the charred corpses,
While holding his sword at his side,
The crimson-coated liquid,
Stains the steel with marks of despair.
WIth a cold, frozen sigh,
The warrior holds his sword to the air,
Letting out a battle cry of victory,
Or adepressing call for help.
The vermilion blade in his hands,
Stained with the blood of his enemies,
Shines bright in the sky with might,
Or stays up with an ominous shine.
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