Wandering

I've traveled this land and fought many things,
Treacheous witches and poisonous stings,
I've kill many men by the sword in my hand,
And many a woman have falen for this man,
I am a writter a poet they say,
With pen as a weapon to my final day,
Ill sling my words like a warriors dance,
Or ill tread lightly a fresh fawns prance,
From the forests, and snow coverd mountains,
To the dark city, and its dried up fountains,
Ill travel this land and face many things,
But in the end all I have, are these words that I sing.