The warrior stretched her hand and let it touch its old mate.
Both had shared a life together, translating fate into history:
Her hand met her silver sword, making polite conversations marveling
At their wounded past stained by bloody nights and silent sacrifices.
She knelt down, tightly grasping the weapon that spoke.
That had always shielded her darkness, that had saved her pride
In all those battles. Waging away in blind rage for honor among men.
A faithful servant, a graceful shadow and now, it spoke for the devil.
The darkening bloodstain on her sword made her shiver, for once.
Shiver with the realization that hit her hard. What was she fighting for anymore?
Her rage became fear that tasted like remorse and looked like regret
Time changed its color like an expert hypocrite, sneering at her foolishness without mercy.
Alas, her insanity was too young to know, her sword too eager for caution.
She moved away her veil and let the tears scream the truth, staining
The bloodstain, cleansing her soul; feeling the ground beneath her feet shift in its ways.
In a now; time wanted her to wager for the supremacy, standing at shoulder
With men, was looking back at honor, as to when standing tall was the double-faced deal
That the devil wanted her to trade for her soul. Did she believe in her fight anymore?
True. She had vowed to defeat her fears, but her fears changed when honor became power
With the colors of time that hid many shades of truth within its masked shadows.
Time was an expert hypocrite; with one warrior killed, it fed another’s sword.