A dragon, the last of its kind, in the sky
Is roaring in anguish and flying so high
The massacre's mediums look down in shame
They glance at each other to share the blame
The men will go home, while the dragon has none
The dragon will hunt the men down one by one
Until there is no foul blood on the earth
Their death will be means for his race's rebirth.
Their blood on his claws will be mixed with his pain
Their guts in a pile will burn in the rain
Of dragonborn tears and dragonmade fire.
His soul will bewitch the magical pyre
And through one last death
A creature is born
With his final breath
He leaves to be mourned
By all of his youngsters
Who dance in the sky
Whom we see as monsters
Without wondering why.
Rebirth
© Copyright: Триумвират, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115083009823
Свидетельство о публикации №115083009823
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