The red is dripping on the white snow,
As the wounded warrior lifted himself up,
Leaving the battle of dead and wounded…
When he was holding the shining blade,
He had seen the glory and gory of war,
He had seen the real and fake,
He had seen the heights of fame and fall,
He had seen the riots of poor and powerful,
He had seen the lies and truce of lives…
Riding the fleet of steeds,
He was the slave and the master,
He was the smoke and fire,
He was the dream and the nightmare,
He was the rage and calm inside,
He was the swinging high and low of time…
Now the time was dragging between life and death,
The last conquest had broken his shinning blade,
And beneath the armor his soul was bleeding…
