victory

[Whirlingdervish]

- Victory -

Flickering starlight glints,
on the blades of the fallen.
The crunch of gravel sounds under worn greaves,
Taking long strides across the wastes.

The wounded cry out;
wails of pain like banshees rend the sulfurous air.
The crackle of fires and pyres,
of good men and foul beasts,
weave a cloak of dark and heavy stench.
The flesh and bone, they burn,
the trees and grasses burn,
The soil is blackened with their passing.

Crusted blood crinkles,
into the feet of crows, at the edges
of eyes haunted by grief and pain.
Pain like none should see, caused by their own hand.

Notches and chips in the sword's blade
and dents in the armor can be repaired.
But what of the gashes and slashes
that rend the soul of the warrior?

They never fade.


WD
10/1/01