He maintain his stance,
Withstooding another strike,
But for how long more could he,
When you see his trembling limbs
And sore bloodied hands.
There was no intention
Of dropping his arms
But neither can he find strength
To make another swing of the sword,
Blunt and rusted to the hilt.
His limbs cry to him
And his mind wavering,
Facing the thought of defeat,
With each weakening breathe
Doused by the scorching wind.
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