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Wednesday, 12 March 2014


To the dare field, feet..
matching, masking dusts
Dull toes tracking...soil, salt.
Matching, veiling dusts.

Beating, sounding the drums of war.
Beating the hell off the sounds.
Beating the sun off the swords...
keeping the eyes on the war.

"Slay men who are men"
 Drinking saliva,
and slaying the men.
It is painted upon men,
blood, sands and water.

It is painted upon men, blood.
 Two thousand men drop by the side,
 Three thousand by the door,
 Five thousand soaked in blood.

Then ten thousand skulls of warlords
soaked of wine and blood.

We see necks loosing heads
and those already carrying heads
bleeding blood and lungs.
And those archers at service
falling one by one.

Now, To the battle front
stands the brave,
And to the backbench watches the grave.
To the back of the backbench
watches the grace.
The laws of war and of blood,
The planners of the mapping blood.

To the midst, the wagers of stoning stones,
And the bearers of shield and staff.
To the bloods line flows the woes
scripted the blood stream of medieval bones.

To the songs that sang  the back
whether to the retreating track
or to ready blades that baths
To the rapier real men sank in medieval bath.

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