Alive in Hell

What strength of swing, what depth of cut—
So deep, not a hundred years shall heal;
What skill, old foe, what dearth of ruth—
So rare, not a nerve you lay revealed.

No song in your praise the minstrels sung—
No warning to prepare for your blade;
Ere I turned and saw the silver glint
As sword slit flesh, and blood hit glade.

But yet I could well have persisted
Had you not dealt me the cruelest blow;
Had but just wounds of body inflicted
And watched the warm blood froth and flow.

Instead you chose not to slay but stay,
Let recover and rip apart evermore;
Enough to hurt, but too little to die,
Till my soul the risk of perdition bore.

Achilles couldn’t match your matchless flair,
Odysseus not the cunning of your ways;
Elves were wise, but you, my lord,
Are beyond the reckoning of my days.

And thus in hell I live on earth.