I stood upon a barren field, and cried.
Windswept with ashes, comrades old and foemen strong.
A raven's tears mix with the wolves. Most fearsome song.
Today I feel the loss. My King has died.
No knight reknowned blade did strike him down,
Nor peasants loose flung shaft did find it's final rest.
For from the field he walked, His voice raised high in jest,
And stood we all in glory of the crown.
He passed us by and strode with awesome might
Toward his palfry steed, then turned to wish us well;
That, no last cry he gave, more commonplace farewell,
And into mornings' sun he rode from sight.
Within my mind I still deny the loss.
No hero finds his end in such foreshortened way.
His claim was to the Saga, not denied destiny.
What right to break the blade? To leave the dross?
Yet do we see his legend build this day.
The bards still sing and cry his undisputed might,
And no heart beats that can his soaring legend fight.
For living men are bound by feet of clay