The Knight

The knight, weary and battle scarred
Drops his heavy armour to the ground
He builds a fire without a single word
Exhaling, bends his tired knees to sit
He waits
No more will he go out from this place
No more bloody battles will he fight
No more conquering and subjecting
No more creating of wealthy empires
He waits
One by one they come and sit
Staring at the old wrinkly hermit sage
Speaking soft words of quiet wisdom
The fire reflecting in his eyes

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