The Shallows

The Shallows

He waits by the shallows,
Polishing his blade,
It lustered, a silver gleam,
but had shown red.

He laid by the fallen,
Whoever they were,
And carried them over the river,
Of which lay banked, Pine and Fir.

With his eyes of penance and
Heart of dulled metal,
Lay he,
Polishing his blade,
Removing rust so red,
It spoke to the dead.

He waits by the shallows,
Taking their breath so soon,
Scourging their eyes,
That now,
They walk by the pyre towards the blood moon