THE ATLANTEAN SWORD

 

Who set loose dogs on you in the waste

that was your home and judged you broken?

Who stirred the hordes of enemies you faced

When you despaired that hell had spoken?

 

When you ran and fell in a hole to hide

Your ultimate shame, who made your grave?

Think hard. Where did you lose your pride?

You say it never was yours? Look, slave!

 

Here! Among these stones that were foundation,

Here still in this giant ancestral hand,

This rune-written blade that mirrors the sun,

Hammered and tempered by men of your land.

 

Feel its grip and heft, recite its story:

A race of men just, ingenious and bold

Who strode the earth and were not sorry,

Proud free men who would never be sold

 

Or dishonor themselves stood fast and strove

For you–and here you are, their rightful heir,

On your knees. Get up and stand in love!

Even now in this dark, you can only dare.

 

Feel the legend in your hands. To fabricate

excuses not to wield its righteous weight

Is cowardice and God will damn it.

This legacy of steel is yours. Claim it.

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