A knight left on his journey,
Three days he claimed he'd take.
He packed his gear, his blade shined queer;
He'd made a huge mistake.

A knight, left on his journey,
A day he'd been alone.
The hero's trail, a silent wail.
He wanted to be home.

A night left on his journey,
The dragon lie in wait.
As our hero neared, he slew his fear
The beast he would away.

A knight left, on his journey.
And in the fight he flailed.
He could only succeed as dragon feed.
As a hero he had failed.

A knight left on his journey,
For others to partake.
The beast was slain, 'mongst his remains
They found the knight's mistake.

A knight left on his journey
With a blunted sword.
The blade shone queer, and 'twas quite clear;
Death was his reward.

I stand in front tears roll down my face,
they all had something to lose where I had not,
looking towards the graves with crosses on top,
my theory of a soldier doesn't cry is truly broken,
putting a flower on each of the 96 graves,
I look back at the 100 that remain and the 3 at my back.
She puts her hand on my shoulder for now she stands at my side.

She wipes away my tears and holds my arm close,
not afraid what the others would think she bravely smiles,
war is red and so is her hair,
though unlike many others she holds no regret coming along,
one question I have for her makes her smile,
My name is Joan Fira she will say.

Me and her stand on the hill though when she asks mine I simply say,
put your helmets on we march and walk away,
my mind is filled with shame how can I tell her I've no name,
the enemy stronghold stands in front of us,
inside is 450 men though farmers and untrained soldiers.

They rallied against our capital for setting two barbarian villages on fire,
I tell myself what we did is right though no matter how many times it never sinks in,
my prediction at first was right no amount of training can prepare one to take a life,
and right now I know this is not just another war.

We charge inside storming the walls my mace slams into the face of one,
my sword through anothers heart,
behind me I hear them pour down hot oil down upon some soldiers heads.

though not on hers for I jump in the way,
tears are in her eyes as I slip away.

Before my eyes close forever more I hear her say Red Is The Color Of War.

Walking over the village of ash,
we look around over the blazing sun,
nothing at all remains except the charred bones of the enemy,
my feet step on a skull my steel boot crushing it into two,
I stop and so does my army as I heard it the signal for fire,
others from the neighboring village have come seeking revenge,
a rain of arrows pierce the sky.

Those of my men who were smart hide,
me I stood there with my arms held like a cross,
a shield  does not hide or flee,
though before even a single arrow hit the ground she had pulled me into a house,
I try to escape her clutch once I hear those arrows hit their mark,
no matter how hard I struggle she will not let me go.

Soon my men will do as normally told they would put their helmets on and reap souls,
when I leave the house with her I see my numbers have lost greatly,
now the number of soldiers left dwindled down to 100 including me,
my men look to me for what we do next,
I say get the catapults ready for each man we lost they shall lose 20.

I stand over the village venom in my mind,
my men fire on the farmlands and the village,
they messed with the capital now they shall feel its sting,
for now for every loss I counted the screams.

I'm their commander and their shield,
though what I forgot to realize is even a shield can break,
I only expected one loss for the journey.

Now I see in war to save all my men is impossible,
but when she puts her hand on my shoulder I know now I too have something to lose.

This is but our first loss.

Today is another day in the crusade,
another scar adds to my many from the previous day,
the soldiers beg I don't take the lead,
though I will not listen to them,
I say my usual line put your helmets on,
I'm there general they will not see me die.
standing tall we march through the rain.

Meeting the so called enemies to the capital,
I stand tall not fighting for a cause,
my reason is because I was told to and that is all,
I charge into battle a sword in my left, a mace in my right,
no shield for me, because my body is my defense,
though there she runs next to me eager to return the favor from yesterday.

my mace meets the skull of one, my sword through another,
death is now just a sick game I play how many can I **** 1...2...3
for every 1 I count 20 men have fallen by my hand,
the enemy surrounds a small group of three,
not going to watch my men die I run into the crossfire.

I take each blow meant for them,
a show of will my men surely take to heart, for they **** the 15 that surround them,
me there commander and there sheild.
a strike to my back she catches with her sword she take the mans life her eyes shine with embers.

for today has ended without a single lose,
I see it as a true victory,
I am the general of 200 men and in the end only one lose I expect.

one of a man that has nothing to lose,
I share my  body to be there shield.

4 stand before me with thanks on their lips, and I have to remember Soldiers don't cry...

Walking a park of flowers around York Minster
tickets in pocket for the festival of early music
colours singing to the sound of the past like minstrels
until I rounded a corner and found all I'd ever seek
in the slightly forlorn sight of a single rose
a captive to love's tune and white as a frozen sheet
hoping for a spare ticket to hear the angel voice
of a choir in concert as beyond compare as she
“sit no longer dear lady - share with me” and spirits rose

white rose in my veins when in time we hugged shuddering
as a cold coat of feeling moults tunes on to your lips
secure in silent truce in mon amour doubt shedding
deep petal armour on a second skin to get a grip
when stems entwine in a new warm understanding
as if about to fall back in time to retrace steep steps
so lean forehead forward on your soft drop strands
shoulders combine soldier sidearms with giddy happiness
heart stopping red passion stitching together bled thorns

I pretend a meek surrender giving ground to fate
but secretly hope to surround with pikes where you sit
heart's drum beat rallying to rush up lush slopes
search parties in the choir stalls but sound you out
dislodging bared hearts so tales compare more freely
pushing with the weight of growing pains in concert
to get your defensive walls to tumble away to reveal
a many levelled playing field of mutually shared delight
where music is the food of love served for every meal

you give no quarter but a quavering piece to which I lay claim
to shield how I revel in each quiver at advancing forces
raising my standards to meet your church steeple climbs
but still ardour yields to the scale of your appeal en masse
torn from arduous verse to verse praising that limb this limb
I submit and sense a chance of permanent heaven in this peace
as like a knave on the trail of your scent summits crumble
into the rolled out treaty rosy perfume in precipitous ravines
where I pin chivalrous titles to the brush of knightly leaves

snared in the honeyed trap nave of your thorns
abandoning myself to the rapture entwined with love
winning the soul rights to capture and chaperone
a concerted effort which brought you to the fore
by the devious role of fate and by divine charm
by some device and by far ranging gentle force
of arms which did no harming
and by the loving voices
of angel choristers
which sing now to break the ice
as loudly as they have
down the ages before us

Never would I have thought
What this piece of paper had brought
Inked in its first days
It uplifted us into a golden age

but as its letters faded and disappeared
the king and his madmen reappeared
with his forged steel and crude command
The paper was soon banned

now the ink has evaporated
and the paper has lost its grace
our future is ill-fated
tomorrow comes the stone age

Many legends there be back in days of old;
Legends of bold knights upon their noble steeds.
This be a tale starring a knight and his steed
As one and the same.

'Twas in the Renaissance city of Poitiers
The prodigy of a holy knight was born;
Sir Nathanëal of the Salomon bloodline,
Lineage of victors.

He bore the heart and voice of an archangel
And the loyalty of a priest to his God.
No other horse he rode but his first and last;
Dear "Divinitus."

Alas, his loyalty had cost him dearly
In the midst of the Battle of Moncontour.
Thus came the end of Nathanëal Salomon.
Or so it had seemed.

By the hands of benevolent sorcery,
Nathanëal and Divinitus lived again,
This time sharing a peculiar physique
Of both man and horse.

Thus, blessed with fur of white and a mane of gold,
Well-equipped with lightweight armour and claymore,
He walked the outskirts of France slaying evil
As both knight and steed.