He kneels, yet will not bow his head –
Night gathers round, the field is lost,
But from his wounds and earth-stained skin
Still blazes pride, undimmed by cost.
His sword lies broken at his side,
Fragments glinting in failing day,
Yet in his grasp remains the will
To meet his fate, to face, not sway.
He does not plead for gentle night
Nor curse the foe that pressed him low;
His gaze burns out against the dark
With all the fire he used to show.
Defiance steels his lifted face –
Though nation, love, and comrades fall,
He stands for all who choose to fight
And perish, but will not crawl.
Let victors strut and songbirds hush –
They cannot claim what he defends:
A soul unbowed, a final breath
That, fierce, will not break or bend.
The sword is broken – he is not;
Within his silence thunder rings:
“You took my life, but not my thought –
A free man dies, a free man sings.”