So to the West, the lifeless West,
The troubadour did trot;
Through boughs of burning red and gold
‘Twas solitude she sought.
When, “Clash!” the iron thundered, lo,
“Have at thee!” the reply;
and ‘neath the leaves, the forest’s eaves,
she heard their battle-cry.
Two giants bearing broken swords
Stood by a river’s bend
Whose water fell straight down to Hell:
They battled at World’s End.
The first, a man with silver eyes:
The dead sang from his blade.
Against him, this: a howling beast
With skin of gems and jade.
The shim’ring thing swore its revenge
And swung its gilded fist.
“You’ve robbed from me my memory!”
it spat and drooled and hissed.
The Cliffside yawned behind them, yet
No mercy did they lend.
For even where no life would dare,
they battled at World’s End.
Old Silver-Eyes stopped dead and spoke:
“But this cannot be true;
For I know nothing of my past
Save this, our endless duel.”
The giants stopped a moment as
Their fear began to grow;
Then each one roared and charged once more
And tumbled far below.
The troubadour could only watch
As friend killed only friend.
And so they fell straight down to Hell,
And battled ‘til the end.
