For all that was never mine,
I raise my glass in silent toast,
To my bleeding heart; doing just fine.
As I look upon this grave,
This monument of dust; an ode to love’s lost splendour,
I stand not a martyr, nor a vanquished king past his prime,
but a fallen warrior with steel in his spine.
Though my head be bowed, my back is ramrod straight,
Though my heart be broken, not broken is my faith,
And yet upon my face a fleeting smile flits,
What bloody carnage ‘twas, a battle loved to bits!
A warrior can’t be but proud,
though bleeding on battleground he lies,
For a battle well fought, dripping sweat on haloed grounds,
A battle fought with honour, can bring down the mighty skies.
So yes, the warrior is proud,
Proud he fought; that he laboured for love, not hate,
Proud he stands at the very love’s grave,
Stoic, in the face of fate.
For with a warrior’s wisdom, he knows when a battle is lost,
And with a warrior’s courage, he readies himself; for there’s a war to be won.
With a warrior’s strength, he turns away from the grave,
And with a warrior’s conviction, he shatters the glass and tightens his grip on his blade.
With a warriors spirit, as I walk into the dawn,
I hear with alarming clarity, the blowing battle horn,
And drifting on the wind comes back to me, a piece of battle lore,
That he who in grave injury, does not to death fall prey,
Him with a mighty heart, returns to fight another day.