Dead wood burns over
The fields of the fallen. Axes rent
And armor split, an army of corpses
Rests atop bloodied grounds. Smoke rises
As dusk falls
On a red sun, whose rays will never
Light their smiles again. Smoke rises
To the mountains and sweeps
Into the sea, whose waves will never
Kiss their feet again. The rains lament
The passing of the brave
With beads heavy and cold.
But the fires rage ever strong
On the tinder
Of the lost and the broken.
He Who Wanders 