A dragon, and a tidewave of his mystic blood, a broken sword and broken words, promises washed away with the blood and the scales and the rose.
A smile, a smile never to be seen again, a broken arm, a bloodied hand and eyes that could pierce the scales themselves -and perhaps they did-.
Victory but a costly one, and nothing to celebrate, not the victory of an army but the victory of one soul...Against what? What was the dragon anyway? What more than the scales and the claws and the teeth? Something indeed but he could not name it and neither could I.
A dragon as a test, not the first time either.
And the real quest failed elsewhere. And the real men lost anyway.
A dragon as a mirage of what was tamed and what was not, what accomplished stands and what conquered could not be.
The spirit shall be stronger, the hands thougher, the voice greater but are they?
There are days when one can believe and others when it is wiser to abandon all hope.
It might be that day after day the gates of hell open for the knights and the warriors and for us poets as well -and peasants the same-.
And one could abandon hope because why not?
And unless you have that answer “Why not?”
You’ve already lost.
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