The Black- Sword

He is the master of what he knows
the man who strides neath hoary boughs

The reaches bear their burden drear
when light and sun burn seldom clear

In hand, the master holds his sword
It leaves it mark like flesh to cord

With honor strong and fury quick
his name abroad, with fame is thick

No enemy can blunt his force
That challenge is a wayward course

Again he’ll see the sun shine bright
and set the darkness deep, in flight

He is a man of tortured mind
No peace in life is his to find