Sun glitters, a breath of Hell plays solemn songs of the
Devilish across scorched sands.
Nothing stirs in the Oasis
Damned found in this harsh burning land.
Wrath filled and seeking any
Who burn with a raging fire.
Consumed with a raging desire
To Enslave the weak.
From out of the sands simmering he came,
Wielding terrible fury on those
Who sold hapless souls dressed
in chains heavy
Of slavery certain.
Cries of supplication to the silent gods
arose during nights long
of constant drudgery;
Pleading . . . begging, for divine
Cruel masters laughed and jeered;
“Come a soul not to save your
miserable lives, slaves!”
And they would laugh. And they would
beat the weak and the
Tread lightly, fools, your heartless jeers
Divine retribution is what your heart should fear.
For on this hot day, as sun’s white disc
steams the white fog of oasis
green and aqueous blue
Clear of dancing, nebulous wraiths
Cries they heard from riders afar.
The sounds of clashing arms
and shields stout
from blows mighty.
Many they seemed
Yet far too few.
A warrior appears, dressed in ancient armor,
sun glistening from bronze helmets.
With one stroke of sword against slaver’s chains–
With one stroke, the lost have freedoms regained.
Now the oasis is silent.
Now dead are the fools who once were defiant.
And Champion—Champion treks
through sands burning.