Ynys yr Afallon

The wicked steel plunged deep within his breast
Giving to the warrior a forced and eternal rest
The soldier wakes in torment to a dark, dismal place
Vines with wicked barbs lash violently at his face
A strong, chill wind passes among the hardwood copse
Trying hard to blow away all this man's hopes
He picks a trail that twists through the tortured trees
The fears they scream and tears they bleed send him to his knees
He rolls his head back to gaze up towards the frowning sky
Staring into the swirling gray mass, a tear falls from one eye
He stands on failing legs and stumbles down his chosen path
Through his journey he suffers the harsh forest's wrath
When at last he collapses upon a beach of wet, gray sand
He stares with glazed eyes upon a slender, feminine hand
Grasping his saviour, he is laid gently across a black cloth
By boat they glide on open waters, yet the bow creates no froth
As they navigate a placid lake his wounded carcass restores
Broken bones mend and his body seals wide cuts and sores
He is a warrior, remembered, forgotten, and passed on
Worries, hardships, concerns, and mortal fears are gone
As he fulfills a sleep due atop the velvety green of Avalon