The mighty warrior should sheathe
the weapon he holds, already stained with blood.
His victims already aren't able to breathe
with the pressure on their bodies in the flood.

This is one to go down in the history books.
Revolution rested in the blade of one man,
to whom the cowards gave proud glances and looks.
Now, if only they would take their own stand.

His words whispered with the trickle of the stream,
carrying the scent of death, needing to settle a score.
Just one was useless, but a million could dream
that his life wasn't done and he could do even more.

No one heard the tyrant scream as the open halls broke.
All they knew was that the rain had stopped falling,
while their hero had disappeared with a simple choke
of air, the surmise of some tale of further calling.

The water stilled, pooling around the path,
turning red, leaving a trail for the pure.
The tyrant played one last trick, his wrath
escaping and turning hearts obscure.

The mighty warrior should appear
with his weapon in his hand.
His hands have been painted with fear,
fleeing his dangerous enemy: the land.