Sarash

So many suns had set for Sarash,
He was tired, tortured in body and mind.
There were so few things now he could cherish
As his health was in decline.

War, greed and constant fights for wrong,
Had earned Sarash terrible strife.
Now, nearly alone with no place to belong
The old warrior faced off with his life.

How many had he plundered, murdered and raped,
Gaining little more than some trinkets and gold?
As he thought and pondered, he just couldn't relate
To the anguished cries from their souls.

Sarash remembered the fear in their eyes.
He could still hear his sword slicing flesh.
As the villagers looked on with despise,
Begging God for the death of Sarash.

Now, near that end, he had nary a friend.
Sarash would fight his last battle alone.
He wept for himself, with little portend,
His frail body was all he still owned.

How can one repent in sincerity,
For actions taken with little remorse,
When his own mercy was always a rarity
Compared to the strength of his force?

Death itself conquers Warriors in time.
Sarash knew he was no exception.
He never prayed nor cared in his prime,
So his pleas brought only rejection.

In a last sob of grief, Sarash died alone.
No eye shed a tear, no throat cried his name.
It was a fate Sarash had brought on his own...
Forgotten bones; no one to claim his remains.