The Warrior with an Axe.

When winter comes…

You’ll hear no lions roar…
No stags grazing the fields…
No roses growing in the meadows…
No snakes in the sand…
The krakens will freeze where they swim…
The flayed men will rot and wither…
No trouts swimming in the river and no falcons flying in the air…
Not even the dragon’s breath will warm you in your halls.
You shall hear only the wolves howl…
And then you will know. Winter has come.
When the motherland will cry like a wound...
enflamed by all attempts to heal her.
When kings- headstrong and corrupt, will die...
Now headless and a corpse, murdered by men just as vile.
When fanatics moulded from greed, lust and avarice ...
Will come from all sides,
And spill blood, hatred and shame on every corner...
Then you will know. Winter has come.
And then, he will rise.
The scorned son, the misguided warrior will rise...
The brawn will pave way to a hero,
The cub will bloom into a lion.
A lion thirsty for the taste of crimson blood...
He won’t rest till the they are dead-
All twenty- one of them.
A thousand terrors he would cure...
Kingdom by kingdom,
Street by street,
Kshatriya by kshatriya...
Control the monster, they would say...
He will unleash the monster.
Rise Parshuram.... Rise!