The lights on that day played brilliant,
Singing in their unearthly, lordly, strength.
For better or for worse, that lambency
Was not just of the wild sky, but of the
Strengths battl’ing upon those blood-soaked grounds.
The tragedy that fell, of horrid Death, was all yours.
You brought it upon our now-acursed lands,
That which we had strived so hard to stop.
It was your ice-cold hand, forged from wint’ry mountains,
That brought about this furious dance of doom.
Would that it were merely fate, that the noble
Knights had fought for what was meant.
But it cannot be that you, in your cruel, clear heart,
Did not reach in and twist the silken Strands.
How terrible your heart, O Death!
How callous your long-fingered hands!
Are we all your servants, working towards your ends,
Unkowing of your plan towards our inevitable doom?
These poor souls would have been, for sure.
But pray, Death, if pity in your heart you can find to hold,
Let loose your grip upon the Fates of men
And speak a while of the Fates of these,
Who have fallen of late by your hand
On the blood-soaked battle grounds. For surely,
As your freezing winds caressed the earthly battle grounds,
Whipping your will through the hair of men,
Surely you looked upon the heroes of this war,
And spoke of them, if only to yourself,
And for one fleeting moment mourned what you
Had will to do, if only for the loss of beuty from this world.
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