The warrior has his own goddess
Who rides a black horse, against a darking sky
The ravens circle with the thunderheads
And all the field is stained with black and red
Her eyes are sharp, like daggers piercing flesh
She beats her shield, and peals of thunder crash
She moves to strike, and lightening is her sword
She strews the field with carrion for birds
She tends black ravens, on her shoulder perched
Her hair is wild, her lips are blooded red
Her breath is death, which flies upon the wind
Her cry is black, and chills the hearts of men
Her cloak is black, like night without the stars
Her robes are scarlet, dyed in heroes' blood
She calls each warrior on the field by name
As stroke by stroke, he cuts his way to fame.
This page last updated 08/18/01
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