A poem recounting war in the ancient world.
Our ancient people gather quietly alone.
Together we honour our deeds etched in stone.
An ancestral coven watches long our plight.
For we march long in their fading light.
Our gilded wreaths, fixed upon armoured our chests.
Ringlets shaking, marching mail, ten thousand abreast.
Shines does the dawn, cresting the hills.
Now do we wager, our keeping and wills.
Far away ere shadowy fields, and drawn lines of battle.
Lies the land home, for we whom fear, does never rattle.
Beyond mountain, grove, forest and river.
Across seas, who's great beasts harbour death to deliver.
Soldiery is ever the ilk of all man.
To be stood fast in amidst proudest clan.
Over yonder the foe stands calm as do we.
Soon shall the horn sound, to engage combat with glee.
Fierce are the army's great roaring to greet.
The clatter of arms, steel and all of their feet.
Attending well their fullest fight known.
The dead freshen the earth, with spilled blood and chipped bone.
Over and ever, one side will win.
The losses here, regarded within.
A man finds darkening at the edges of life.
So ends his, with thrust of long knife.
Died have the cries, screams and war-calls.
In silence the victors beholden appalled. .
Around them enemy and brother lie broken and gone.
Forever now, their hearts heft this, his last song.
War rages onward nearing a height.
The threatened realm burning, wholly alight.
With last the final clash wrought.
Collapse does a kingdom, from ill-passions bought...