Beware
the man who tills the lands,
When
forced to pick a blade in his hands,
He
is a humble son of the soil,
Without
a doubt or a cause, he can cause turmoil.
One
life is all he has to give,
But
if the time comes, his blade shall not forgive,
He
shall take a thousand with him,
On
that day, He shall become Death and his punishment would be grim.
Fear
him, those who may think to call him a disgrace,
Coz
he shall lay everything to waste,
For
those who deserve he shall raise his blade,
Locked
in a dance of death, he won’t be swayed.
Strike
him dead in a single blow,
For
when he gets up he shall not be slow,
Blood
will flow and quench the thirst of these lands,
He
shall destroy the enemy and for whatever they stand.
Don’t
push this man to the brink,
For
he shall not, for your actions, let you rethink,
With
hands callused by tilling of barren land,
At
the end, he will be the only one left to stand.
Beware
the man who tills the lands,
When
forced to pick a blade in his hands.
