A war is not a wholesome story.
It contains neither hope nor glory.
A blood moon rose on our final night,
it foretold of a dark and bloody fight.
We officers had no faith in tomorrow,
only words for those lost in sorrow.
My men were too brave to turn back,
even knowing they’d die in the attack.
They would give their all and more,
and dare knock upon death’s door.
The day was hot; the wind still,
enemy archers made the first kill.
Swords and shields were held high,
and we charged in unafraid to die.
The battle raged to their city’s gate
Fear was in their eyes, in ours, hate
Soon, the walls fell, and in we came,
stalking and hunting men like game.
Their wills broke; their heads cracked.
Children hid as their city was sacked.
The dead fed the vultures a fine feast.
The only mercy was being deceased.
Spineless royal guards ran in defeat,
while noblewomen begged at our feet.
The bitches we passed out to our men.
The virgins we kept for a darker sin.
In victory, we honored the God of War.
Sadly, I heard Him cry, “Give me more!”
Such is our fate to wage war yet again,
for in war stories, men will never win.