Upon a lowland's hushful barren,
a mist is unaware of somewhere therein,
a spectral image taking toll,
of fallen comrades in that seeping cold.
And in that hazy, fallow silence,
a lifeless arm holds up a lance.
His banner flaps upon a breeze,
taunting his foe as if to tease.
Following the breeze upon the air,
the smell of death, decay, and despair,
a rakish smell of blooded soil,
the freakish reminder of pain and turmoil.
An armored knight contemplates, sullen.
Recalling feats of comrades -- now fallen.
His gaze turns skyward to a piercing call,
of carrion wings circling, he shivers appalled.
Wiping his armor of some carnage offence,
he surveys the results of happenstance.
Of two opposing kingdoms displeased,
ready to do battle at the slightest sneeze.
Reticent, he mounts his dutiful mare,
and lightly trods through the dead with care.
Calmly, searching a way out of the coil,
leaving the death birds to their toil.