Sunday, 24 May 2015

Striding forth through meadows kissed,
With morning sun wot rise betwixt,
The waving oaks, their branches bowed,
With birds of black, an omen sowed.

Upon his back, two blades hang sheathed,
Their points exposed so blood may breathe.
One steel, it sings the fate of man,
One silver, forged to purge the land,
Of monsters, demons, ghouls, and wraiths,
The nightmares wot turn men to faith.

This hero--No, let's folly not.
'Tis gold that stirs him from his cot.
This man--And even that's a lie,
For there lurk hellfire in his eyes.

There be but one name fits him fair,
Geralt of Rivia, the Wolf with White Hair.


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