At night a centurion with his only inseparable friend his spear, as the time of his mysticism, where his spear cheers that he feared to die suddenly to his adversary, as if it was the death sent by the devil on a silent and sleeping city that only the moon carries ashes in the air of the innocent.
I am only a Warrior who was sweet to suffer and charged his dream of not being a slave, because just like the war came the tragedy, leaving cracks that opened the mouth to the cry of the earth, the Souls are lost with only the fact of the vibration of the atmosphere of ashes that drags the disobedience to its infinite will.
Only the warriors face the pain that is carved in their flesh, like the men who were devoured by vultures In the bottom of the Soul without spear to fight their honor, like the blood that runs down the face of the men who face the strangers, but the bravery is to hide without cruelty, so the blood continues to run on the walls of the enemy, continues to fight as a beast to be immortal as ul legendary.
The warriors with their spear are man devla nature who turn away from the corrupt cuides, who throws himself into the sea to be like fish that rushes with impetus to the current, who only sings his hymn of glory full of solemnity.
