About the Poem
This is my effort to show the futility of warfare, or for that matter the uselessness of most combat of any sort.
A Few Visitor Comments
He stood alone there on the field
his sword was stained and cracked
his armor colored red with blood
from the enemies he had hacked.
The shadows grew across the land
as he watched the setting sun
his thoughts were filled with deep despair
but... the battle had been won.
Alone he stood, there in that place
bleeding and used up, silently he stood alone
then bowed his head and could not look up
the fight was fought, his heart now so cold.
At what a cost... this victory
what had he won at this expense
thousands dying, dead or maimed
bodies ripped and torn and rent.
Not one could stand there with him
he stood this ground alone
not a single man would join him
it turned his heart to stone.
Then the pain was with him
as he fell into the mud
the wound was deep and deadly
and he tasted his own blood.
In vain he tried to rise once more
the reaper had come to call
there was a victor on the field
and he had claimed them all.
He stood alone, upon that field,
his sickle glistening red
a joyous look upon his face
he came and claimed his dead.
Then one by one he touched them
claimed every single son
and silently he turned and left
this battle he had won.