A brave warrior puts on his mask,
not of silver or gold, but wax.
He draws his crimson blade,
for he is accustomed to the blame.
He mounts in his darkest hour,
through those plains of judgmental showers.
In the presence of his foes,
he'll be damened if his fear shows.
There he would stand and gaze at his prison,
with sword at hand, but not risen.
He stairs at its metal walls,
and enters those crowded halls.
He walks in not seeking the horrors of battle,
and yet, enters a war he cannot even rattle.
He fears all the creatures in his wake,
for his many battles drove his heart to easily sake.
A brave warrior fought with all his might,
fighting for what he believed was right.
In the end, their is none to whom I can tell his tale.
The tale of a boy, who through strife became a man,
The tale of a man, who through a knife became a stone slab
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem