//------------------------------//
// Act III: The Wounded Hawk 
// Story: Absolution 
// by BlackRoseRaven 
//------------------------------//

Act III: The Wounded Hawk
~BlackRoseRaven


Oh, fickle hawk, bird of prey, with whom do you make war?
Bloody broken avenger, eying the weak with derision,
Who are you to say,
They should die today?
Why is it when you prey,
You hunt the weak with such absolute precision,
And stay far away from those who would fight with conviction?

Oh, wicked hawk, your talons are so sharp, your beak is keen as an axe,
In your eyes burn fire as you stare down from the sky so high,
So tell me vicious bird,
When you look down at the herd,
Why are you in a word...
Jealous? Hateful? Envious? Scornful? You sigh!
And yet I see cowardice in your eyes when you say it's because they'll all die!

Oh, battle hawk, I see you girded for a coming fight!
Your feathers are your mail, your talons your knives,
And yet I smell hesitation,
A sense of trepidation,
Is that self-preservation?
Or fear of the death you've dealt yourself to so many lives!
Oh, how ironic: inside you the pestilence of cowardice thrives!

Oh, wounded hawk, you've become so bitter and disillusioned,
You know the world is shades of gray, not black and white:
You call yourself warrior,
Fancy yourself death's courier,
But I've never seen anyone sorrier:
Yes, my wretched friend, you are a truly pathetic and broken sight,
You wanted to grow up a hero, but instead became only a cruel blight.

Oh, dying hawk, your beak is chipped, and your wings have been broken,
You scream for mercy, but to whom do you dare plead?
To the ghosts?
To your hosts?
To only the empty coasts?
The hood is gone, little hawk, as here you lie and bleed,
Broken from the very war you tried to lead.