The wind was cold,
as the dead were mourned.
The muck swallowed,
the fallen men.
The blades were red,
as the blood had stained.
The dew turned,
a ghastly crimson.
The soldiers pierced,
by many an arrow.
Gore spread,
across the field.
As the raven watched,
from his hollow helm.

For those not claimed,
by sword or cold.
Stood forth,
on axe and fellow man.
The rain had come,
mixing with dirt.
To assist the assimilation,
of man and mud.
Many bodies,
gored or not.
Became lost,
to civilization.
As the raven watched,
from his hollow helm.

Stone nor steel,
could save the men.
Stone on stone,
crushing those they defended.
Those who swing,
get boiled in black.
Those who crank,
get filled by arrows.
The stone beset,
with ladder and rope.
Those who defend,
fell to those who attack.
As the raven watched,
from his hollow helm.