The Rider
By Smeagol
Upon a mighty steed of purest whiteAs white as the virgin snow,Rides a lone figure across the nightAs the winter's wind doth blow.Like the shadows of time he rides the landSearching throughout all the country side,His battered sword held tight in his handAs unstoppable as the ocean's tide.For the fate of a nation lies in his speedHis news must reach the King's ear,The army must be raised and readyFor the enemy is drawing near.A mighty clash of bones and bloodWaits behind tomorrow's door,Dead men drown in red running mudSilent screams ring forevermore.A shot in the dark pieces the nightAnd the Rider grasps his burning chest,As he falls he mourns his countrymen's plightUnaware of the danger they comfortably rest. Written January 11th, 2002 © on Jan 11 2002 10:00 AM PST 0 • 10
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"Upon a mighty steed of purest whiteAs white as the virgin snow,Rides a lone figure across the nightAs the winter's wind doth blow.Like the shadows of time he rides the landSearching throughout all the country side,His battered sword held tight in his handAs unstoppable as the ocean's tide.For the fate of a nation lies in his speedHis news must reach the King's ear,The army must be raised and readyFor the enemy is drawing near.A mighty clash of bones and bloodWaits behind tomorrow's door,Dead men drown in red running mudSilent screams ring forevermore.A shot in the dark pieces the nightAnd the Rider grasps his burning chest,As he falls he mourns his countrymen's plightUnaware of the danger they comfortably rest...."