I feel your roar deeply vibrating in my bones; it pulses in the morning
air, rising and falling in low tones of coming battle. The crack of axe on shield jolts the air; infinite
boots stomp in unison stirring clouds of thick dust bellowing before your
leagues. Your numbers are many; uncountable in the haze of your movements.
I wait; patiently wait for you.
The sun rises from your rear; tinted red by blowing dust; rainbows of swirling
color dance announcing your approach; my smile reveals my delight of your
coming.
We are but a small force; made smaller by your sheer numbers. You
don’t see our joy of the coming battle; our happy voices among our ranks are
smothered under the clamor of your cries.
You will soon learn; dust settled by your soaking blood. We will walk upon your empty shells; silence
your shouts, your blood will spoil the ground you pray to master. History is written of your defeat; your slaughter
will be complete.
It is time; we walk hand in hand with death; the closes of
friends. You will soon walk with us as
lovers do a closeness only battle and death makes possible. We will pass on the stories of your deaths
proudly into history; men will shake and lower their heads in praise of your
endings; die well this day of days; this I pray.
From the Ramblings.
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