The March of Lord Sartan

By: Tewdrig Posted on: April 13, 2005

Tremble, you weak and graceless monkeys,
The Lord of Evil is on the march;
Worms of creation, Divine diversion,
Never to pass the Garden's Arch.

Tall astride His steed Vassago
Glaring down with blinkless eye,
Lord Sartan scans the dusty highway,
O'er rotting corpses piled high.

Armies slain, He tramples onwards;
Forward, to the journey's end.

Strength incarnate is His sword-arm
From which dread Perdition swings
In gleaming arc to sever lingering
Weakness. Let the death-bell ring.

Pain will bring you nearer greatness.
Feeble mind and body cured
By steel, resolve and swift decision,
Be not by conscience deterred.

The wind whips through His peeling flesh;
Forward, to the journey's end.

Here the highway ends abruptly.
The stench of mortal flesh is ripe.
The Lord cares little for such losses;
Playthings we are: offal, tripe.

We have no right to claim this realm;
Frivolous waste of privilege.
It is our fate to feel the whip,
To serve the strong in our bondage.

Laughing now, Evil has come
To break but never once to bend.
The march is over, here His victory
Over weakness we transcend
In order to advance life, sapient!
Forward, to the journey's end.