A sword passed down from father to son, 

A trophy proudly wielded,

But never won,

Gradually passed down throughout the ages,

Hand by hand to seven sages,

And as it passed between these seven,

A million souls it released to heaven,

Pristine of shape,

And free of rust,

The sword did never break its trust,

As it carved throughout the many years,

Flooding rivers red like bloody tears,

The last of the dragons,

It sent to death, 

Gasped this titan with his final breath,

"For a thousand years, this blade brought pain,

But is shall end while switching hands again,

Foolish Warrior! Is this the path you would wish to have wrought?

Can you not see the desolation you've brought?

And though I die,

It is you who lose,

Cursed to walk the path given,

And not the one you choose!"

Then with a final thrust the sword did fall,

Lost by the greatest revelation of all.