Glorious Victory Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 04 02
The flowers that burst through my frozen heart
know the secret song of infinite light
that flickers fragile in the crushing gloom
to void the sorrow of the aching void.
I spiral downward in the falling rain
and lie shivering by the indifferent stream
which gushes through my flesh from beating heart
till I wake again among singing trees.
Somehow on strength of exhaustion I stand
and stare at the black blood crusting my hands,
so I retrieve sharp sword from pungent soil
and return to the field of clashing battle.
The moon stares silent at the stinking field
where thousands of men, who were screaming loudly,
lie mangled in mud like chopped vegetables,
eyes staring at face of God in the sky.
"How glorious my victory," I laugh wildly,
"falling to my knees in the drizzling rain,
since I am the only man still alive
when Death harvested all their souls for God."
Only cold wind answers my victory cry,
so I sway dizzy over empty void
and think about my daughter with long hair
who held my hand when we walked among flowers.
Perhaps the tales of glorious victories
I heard bards sing in feasting halls for years
were told by those who survived brutal fights,
so fools like me are worshipped as great heroes.
When I return home to my fruit-tree farm
I will tell no grand tales of valiant deeds,
and sing instead to my daughters and sons
about the glorious victory of Death.
© Surazeus
2018 04 02
The flowers that burst through my frozen heart
know the secret song of infinite light
that flickers fragile in the crushing gloom
to void the sorrow of the aching void.
I spiral downward in the falling rain
and lie shivering by the indifferent stream
which gushes through my flesh from beating heart
till I wake again among singing trees.
Somehow on strength of exhaustion I stand
and stare at the black blood crusting my hands,
so I retrieve sharp sword from pungent soil
and return to the field of clashing battle.
The moon stares silent at the stinking field
where thousands of men, who were screaming loudly,
lie mangled in mud like chopped vegetables,
eyes staring at face of God in the sky.
"How glorious my victory," I laugh wildly,
"falling to my knees in the drizzling rain,
since I am the only man still alive
when Death harvested all their souls for God."
Only cold wind answers my victory cry,
so I sway dizzy over empty void
and think about my daughter with long hair
who held my hand when we walked among flowers.
Perhaps the tales of glorious victories
I heard bards sing in feasting halls for years
were told by those who survived brutal fights,
so fools like me are worshipped as great heroes.
When I return home to my fruit-tree farm
I will tell no grand tales of valiant deeds,
and sing instead to my daughters and sons
about the glorious victory of Death.
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