I assure you that you have been told,
Of Ancients, of Legends, of Rebels of old,
But I know one that illustrates the old Greek sonnet,
Return with your shield, or on it.
He was a strong man, a mighty double-bladed warrior,
His hair dark and wavy, his name Nwese Dyior,
He won many a war, for him no one lost tears,
For he was untouchable and had been so for years.
But one day, as they planned a great battle,
Came a feeling so strong, it caused Nwese to rattle,
And when they asked him if he would go,
He shook his head solemnly, and his answer was no.
He told them he felt he shan’t go, and the men all let out a jeer,
He said that it was a feeling, and his friends called it fear,
‘No’, he vehemently disagreed, ‘it tisn’t’,
‘I’ve felt that before, and that it isn’t.’
He stood at the gate, unconvinced, on the very day of the conflict,
And shuttered as the men called out tortuous names which did inflict,
Much pain on his honor, but he stood by his premonition,
Though he was glad when they were gone, by his own admission.
He stood by the gate, watching, as the men went out of sight,
And fingering the horn dangling at his side, he stood there till day turned to night,
At last, he turned and went to his house to slumber and dream,
What awoke him, was a woman’s scream.
He jumped up from the bed, grabbed his two swords,
And looking out the window, saw many warlords,
Soldiers were looting the city, and making a bonfire blaze,
Soldiers in black armor, he saw, and shook off his daze.
He burst from the door, in a torrent of fury,
The man he first engaged, saw not but swords a flurry,
Hearing the noise, a nearby warlord watched in great surprise,
As his best warrior was dropped, and his own death next did realize.
The general drew his sword, and gave out a shout,
His men came running, came from all about,
They watched amazement as Nwese’s swords did fly,
They whisper, ‘kill him we must, or in trying we die.’
The general finished, Nwese fought all the barrage,
In such an unfair of a fight that is ever seen in peerage,
But his swordsmanship was superior, he was a master,
As the number of soldiers grew, he just swung faster.
Slowly he drove them back, away from the city,
In a way that was so slow, so bitty,
But his swords kept flashing, they kept gleaming,
The enemy kept falling… or so it was seeming.
One fell like he was dead, but sprang up from behind,
And began the evil deed which he had designed,
Stabbing him in the back, but Nwese just spun, his sword swinging,
The man dropped, though the sword in Nwese’s back kept stinging.
But he minded it not, for it kept him awake,
It kept him alert, kept him from mistake,
His senses grew sharper, his mind more alive,
As blood poured out his back and drooled down his side.
Four more foes yet to vanquish, but they fled in terror,
Of their mighty defeater, their doomsday bearer,
But Nwese gave a great cry, and sank to his knees,
As the wind blew wildly and shook the dark trees.
A raven flew down, and landed beside the dying Nwese,
Nwese whispered, ‘all things end; all things cease,’
The raven, who tells no untruth, who whispers no lies,
Returns this, ‘the one who lives by the sword, by it dies.’
‘Yes, raven, yes, I quite agree,
For death has asked my pedigree,’
Nwese closed his eyes, ‘but, I vow, I shall never again fight in war,’
This was quite true, for he opened his eyes again, nevermore.
"The only thing that anybody really knows about this author is that he is a real nutcase."
-Anonymous reporter
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