A mean wind of the heart
Ever pushed Sir Mordred
to heathen passes,
to spill dirty blood.
A dead wind
Echoes in the bloody chamber
of this pagan upstart.
He is free
To sink into the abyss again.
Born from the shadows of the feral king
He rises like a soldier of Christ,
Rending limbs to the voice of days to be,
Looking normal and cheerful,
tumbling down his death-black blood.
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