A soldier’s dying breath, iced by the crisp evening air
Caught in a flask of fresh blown glass
Hid deep in the dragon’s lair
The whispering sigh of an angel over a sleeping head
A moment of prayer, it hangs in the air
Then on comes dawn so red
The pulse of an ancient one is slow, steady, deliberate, and wise
He lies on his hoard with nary a word
Till in comes to his greatest surprise
A knight in a plain purple dress, before him she draws her sword
Her skin it is white, her heart made of ice
She fights in the name of the Lord
“Give me the soul of the weary, forgotten little man
Though he hath many a vice, he is forgiven over twice
He belong’s not to this desolate land.”
Fire and wrath and melted gold, a dragon’s anger’s not nice
But the knight with her knife quick takes his life
And steals the flask of fresh blown glass up to paradise