A September's Harvest

The boots trample
as the earth bows
beneath each synchronized step.

The rifles stand poised, ready,
the bayonets reaching
towards the gray morning sky.

Sabers unsheathed,
remain drawn and directing.

The officers' faces red,
shouting to their legions.

The banner unfurled,
beckoning to its glorious defenders
as they march forward in unison.

The snare drums snap
a rhythm of duty.

The heart races forward,
as the stomach sinks into fear.

The glorious blue line advances
forward into the morning mist,
prodded forward
by sergeant and courage alike.

Towards the end of that field
stands a stone formation
of gray statues.

Steadily the great blue line
approaches and waits.

A volley echoes,
ripping into the young morning air.
The dawn mist,
encouraged by the smoke of rifles,
clouds our sight temporarily.

Scores of the blue legion
fall along the advancing line.

The vanguard halts,
our Captain bellows his decrees:

"Aim steady lads,
we'll break them yet!"

The rifle cracks sharply,
its fire spewing and cutting
the gray morning mist.

Scores of the gray statue fall
while the remainder retaliate.

This pattern of butchery repeated
for the entire eternity of that misty morning.

Suddenly, the Captain's uniform
turns crimson.
Once the idol of a mighty blue legion,
he lays perfectly still, lifeless,
as lifeless as the cornstalks
caught in the mutual hail of lead.

Now the blue line,
uncertain, wavering,
begins to stagger,
winding sinuously.

The banner,
punctured by shot and shell,
falls, disappearing among the dead.

The legion breaks,
dropping rifle and saber.
Once a single body,
now a mindless rabble,
fleeing the jaws of battle.

The dead are the only victors,
for them the din of battle is silent,
the screams of comrades
and the fire of arms
cannot penetrate their deaf ears.

No, the suffering belonged to those
who would continue to endure
the day's harvest.

This was only the first of death's harvest
on that misty September morning.