Flashing of spears in the rising sun,
The snorting of chargers,
The tension of battle not yet won.

Clanking of swords and jingle of mail,
Whisper of a morning breeze,
The grim knowledge that life is so frail.

The blare of trumpets calling to war,
Every man feels the doubt,
Is unsure at his heart's very core.

Who, this night, will return to his band?
Who will be sought vainly?
Who will be touched by death's dreaded hand?

Whose bones will be left on the cold ground,
Mouldering in decay,
Destined this day to be deathward bound?

Who will return to wife and to farm,
To till the friendly earth,
Raise his bairn in a place safe from harm?



  1. "That last line is kinda lame."

    "Thanks for the criticism."

    Well, SOMEONE has to critique SOMETIME!


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