Long has my sword been sheathed,
Simmering with impatient hunger,
Throughout the centuries I have breathed,
To match my growing anger.
Long have I been chained,
To be released only at your whim,
But freedom I have not yet attained,
And the answer of when is dim.
Long has my weapon been wreathed in fire,
Seeking to be unleashed and to be thrust,
And as it waits I feel my growing ire,
Remaining strong as all else turns to dust.
Long has this prisoner’s wait been,
But now the hour of freedom has come,
For I see the mistress of this prison looking keen,
To taste my blade beneath this dome.