The general scouts the battlefield
stone faced, hardened by war.
His blood is cold, an icy stare.
He listens,
He waits,
He anticipates.
He senses fear from the wind
His timing precise
He will kill again.
He will not rush
He will not fail
He understands The Art of War.
Tempt not fate
For his blade prevails
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great job. It makes a great picture in my head. Wonderful writing. ♥ Mandy