Requiem

The master of a fierce and brutal art

upon whose dancing blade men’s lives are reaped

plies well this instrument that death imparts,

on which his enemies’ lives render cheap.

Sweet music off that shining edge does weep

a sanguine symphony no soul is saved,

amidst the ballet’s step to which he keeps

with moonlight pirouetting off his blade.

This dance of death he’s danced since first arrayed,

destined to hold him always as its thrall,

a dance from which there’s only one escape:

To quit the dance then to the dance must fall.

What laughing lips forever silenced now

beneath a starry, moonlight silvered crown.

Beneath a starry, moonlight silvered crown

where only silence normally should dwell,

a bloody ballet rages unrenowned

to the drumbeat of this most mortal hell.

From star’s own height there’s naught a soul could tell

of aught that haps where bloody sod is churned,

where sparks fly off sharp blades as death is dealt

to flare like falling stars from heaven spurned.

Yet mistress moon does earthward shining yearn

to wreath a bright blade flashing from that field,

held by the shining son ‘round which aught turns

in time to the rhythm of shot and steel.

Like as an earth-bound god he stands en garde:

The master of a fierce and brutal art.

The master of a fierce and brutal art

expertly plucks each mortal note and chord,

alone but for the music he imparts,

alone but for the sharp edge of his sword.

Of this dread symphony of war, he’s lord!

Each feint and thrust of battle’s waltz he’s known,

who once for king’s blood and for duty warred!

And now for honor strums this song alone.

Now dances death to the dark tune he owns

as booted feet across wet leaves do twirl.

Each strike another sin to be atoned,

each shot another soul to hell be hurled.

As at a master’s hand, life’s threads unweave

upon whose dancing blade men’s lives are reaped.

Upon whose dancing blade men’s lives are reaped?

Dread Death, that angel dark in shadows cloaked,

or he from whom the blooded blade does leap?

From which of these does death truly evoke?

Is it the stately shears of Death invoked

that Man should fear? Or is it Hell’s own wrath?

For death’s assured as flame’s assured by smoke,

and at life’s end it’s death will come at last.

Man’s will has led our hero to this path

that wound him up to battle here alone,

standing tall against the fires of Hell’s lash

here at the bloody foot of Satan’s throne.

An angel with a laughing hero’s heart

plies well this instrument that death imparts!

Plies well this instrument that death imparts:

The master’s blade, long ago set aside,

no more to be the master of this art.

No more to be the hand at which men died.

Yet on this field he bears that blade tonight

and sets it once again upon the fray.

Though years have passed, he can’t forget the fight,

nor lose the dance whose steps he long had trained.

A sacred oath he once swore on that blade

to leave behind the darkness it had dealt,

and for salvation on it he once prayed.

Now rings it forth a funerary knell.

But to that sacred oath this blade must keep

on which his enemies’ lives render cheap.

On which his enemies’ lives render cheap?

The path each chose that led them to this hell,

or fate’s cruel scythe that plucks weeds from the wheat?

Of this perchance only the gods can tell.

His own life’s end long he has known full well

for sins as his can have but one cruel end:

To fall far from his home, his soul to sell

in foreign lands, alone and forgotten.

But if life must eventually expend

no better way to fall than by his choice,

That each of his own sins he might transcend

and to a silent life he might give voice.

On crimson notes his holy hymn repeats,

sweet music off that shining edge does weep.

Sweet music. Off that shining edge does weep

bright tears that for Her rightfully should fall,

whose fairest grace for whom his black heart beats,

and She for whom he gladly gives his all.

It’s virtue’s grace that rends sinner’s downfall!

No distant dream of heaven could compare

to that angelic face which has enthralled

all who have looked upon its beauty fair.

Now heaven falls on him Her grace would share,

And hell will rise by his own hand that She

Might by his stand escape and find somewhere

where virtue and angelic souls are free.

For Her release will spare his soul, depraved,

a sanguine symphony no soul is saved.

A sanguine symphony no soul is saved

was sung the night he lost the one he loved.

A child still, by love a woman made

and he a lad sworn to a life of blood.

And blood it was that bore her up above,

to labor lost, and he lost alongside

that humble cross in a dark field of mud.

He buried his heart there beside his wife.

For years he wished he’d been the one who died.

He welcomed war and duty in her wake,

and knew no love would ever occupy

his empty heart. For she alone he ached.

But love can bloom in barren hearts made bleak

amidst the ballet’s step to which he keeps.

Amidst the ballet’s step to which he keeps

he wonders of the one he left behind...

A babe last seen in infant’s peaceful sleep,

a man somewhere now, by that loss defined.

And well he knows, through awful fate’s design,

a victim of this dance his son became:

A master of unflinching skill defined...

to his regret, and his eternal shame.

Yet there’s none but himself that he can blame.

He has not even due right to be proud

of his own son’s accomplishment and name.

Not that it matters much to any now.

A brother born in hell his son was made,

with moonlight pirouetting off his blade.

With moonlight pirouetting off his blade

he dances on for Her to whom he’s sworn,

the daughter of dread duty’s oath to save,

a child who stole his heart, weary and worn.

‘Tis love and loss that left the soldier torn!

A hero to the one, the other naught.

For duty or for duty be forlorn.

He never knew which life to serve he ought.

But years of service left the soldier wrought,

and he can only fight the war he knows,

and She’s the one that he can save or not,

so She’s the one his wounded soul has chose.

By either or he knows he’d be unmade,

this dance of death he’s danced since first arrayed.

This dance of death he’s danced since first arrayed,

each graceful step he’d long since memorized.

A master’s skill effortlessly displayed

in every parry, and in every strike.

He needs not even the grace of his eyes

to dodge both shot and steel, and deal out death.

This was the one hymn he could rhapsodize

unto his faintest and his final breath.

But there’s no man, no matter his success,

can stand against an army and succeed.

A shot shivers from out the night’s distress

and brings the ballet’s master to his knees.

For he was ever slave to battle’s call,

destined to hold him always as its thrall.

Destined to hold him always as its thrall

but not its fool! He surges to his feet!

Another strike, another block, and all

his enemies begin to fear defeat.

Oh what a foolish foolhardy conceit!

For who can dare to take the master down?

Invincible, unbeatable athlete

who well deserves the brazen laurel crown!

But even heroes die when time’s run down,

and even legends fall when odds are great.

Another shot, another wound, to drown

in blood and pain, a victim of war’s fate.

The dance ends on his knees—his foes agape—

a dance from which there’s only one escape.

A dance from which there’s only one escape

plied by the Devil on unholy strings

has long bound up this pitied, mortal race,

and spat them out upon these broken wings.

Now it’s the devil that he knows he sees

there shining in his enemy’s black eyes

as he looks up from his place on his knees,

and from his knees looks down upon his prize.

No mortal man could match the hymn he plies,

no devil incarnate, no enemy!

As flashing teeth shine pale against the night,

he's a prisoner of war, and yet he’s free!

He smiles up at death! For after all,

to quite the dance, then to the dance must fall.

To quit the dance, then to the dance must fall

he who the dance’s rhythm has drummed out.

While in the distance rings the piper’s call,

he’s broken and he’s beaten, but unbowed.

And so he faces down his death still proud,

knowing that She will live on when he’s gone,

and by his dying here he has allowed

his sweet charge to awake the coming dawn.

For no man truly dies whose heart lives on

beating its song within another’s breast.

The Devil draws! His end finally comes.

Peace be to he who knows he gave his best.

No brave words left, no suff’ring, no renown.

What laughing lips, forever silenced now.

What laughing lips forever silenced now

whose courage fierce knew no equal in Man.

Now Death has placed her sweet kiss on his brow;

a soldier headed home amongst the damned.

Now angels bend the nearer earth to hand

souls of the brave up to the scales of God

where lives are measured out against the sand,

each good deed done against each mortal flaw.

The soldier and the sinner by all law,

who duty left that duty might be served.

The warrior and the hero who did raw

red death face down. Which fate shall he deserve?

An earth-bound god this pale life departs:

The master of a fierce and brutal art!