Three times he fell, thrice he rose.
Each time it twas the serpent of old.
Battered, dull steel cloaked his flesh
As he stumbled through the valley of death.
The fiery breath of yonder dragon burns his eyes.
The ground trembles as the dragon strikes.
He lies amongst bodies of the slain-
A weary, stoned man with blood-stained hands.
All hope lost in the sand, a destined loser.
Written off by those sitting in booths drinking cruisers.
Tis out of the atrocious mist
Strides forth a gallant galvanising prince.
His armour dashing silver, polished.
On his chest are medals all glossed.
His sword’s flawless sharp blade
He’s even walked through hades.
The crowd applauses, they cheer him on.
This the man who will the victory shield hold!
Stands he before the dragon in polished steel-
Stood in the fire till he could no longer feel.
His flesh began to melt in the fire’s furious hell
And the polished warrior didst amidst bravado fall.
His vanquished body did on the ground lie
Twas the first time, and his spirit did die.
And as the virgins did bewail their fate,
Heard they on the battlefield a sound and they didst wait.
For from behind our knight in shining armour, rose a wisp.
A weary trodden man rose, his hair singed to a crisp.
He raised his buckler, and strode forth,
The dragon bellowed in rage, stormed from the north.
The beggar thrust forward his sword, drove it deep.
As his muscles locked, his eyes didst weep.
As the juggernaut passed over, he held firm.
And as the fire cleansed him, he didst not squirm.
The dragon fell, slain by the sword of a peasant man
For he was the greater man!
Though beaten down and knocked out – never counted out.
That he would rise up again there was no doubt.
His injuries and scars many, nothing to see.
But he won’t quit till he’s been all that he could possible be.
He lopes off the dragon’s head, and into the promised land walks away.
While the virgins of the city lament o’er the dashing prince’s grave.
graphics composed of photos by Andreas Krappweis, Ilona Burgers, and jorge vicente