The Messenger of Death

The wind stops, the song dies, In the distance, an infant cries The rusted windmill, creaks and turns, While civilization, in my hand, burns Look yonder, o’er the hills you’ll see, My gun, my sword, my steed and me, The barrel smokes; blood drips down the blade, The steed foams and struts in the banyanContinue reading “The Messenger of Death”