The Battle
Mother Night passes her hand above the field…
A mist rises;
Warriors gather…
The
battledance is joined.
Shields clash;
Armor to
armor.
Fiery flashes as the banners catch flame
From the
sparks that fly
From
metal grinding on metal.
Steam rises from the sweat and blood
To mix with
the mist.
‘Til
foe and friend alike
Are
obscured.
Amidst the smoke and the crash,
A scream…
A low murmur rides the silence in its wake,
Billowing out into a victorious thunder.
First kill is made;
The battle
is won.
The mist parts and the warriors withdraw
Into the
dawn…
To sleep and heal
And make
ready their swords…
‘Til Mother Night rises again.
