With a raucous screech,
It enters the breach,
Talons extended to claw the air

In a flight of feathered fury,
It descends upon the ground,
Ready to attack and mow
Its opponents into the ground

Moments later, before it has even begun
The battle has been fought and won
It prepares to fly away

It bugles its triumph,
trumpeting to the skies,
Striking fear into the hearts
of the wary and the wise

But later as it huddles in its cave
It finds the situation grave
As cold winds whistle by

The battle won, but at what cost?
Its noble plumage torn,
Its body cannot deal with
The strain that it has born

And, some days, in the dark, alone,
Its thoughts take on a darker tone
About why it even tries

For what is the point of its life?
Is there more to this than constant strife?
More than fighting, and smiting, and pain?

No, there can’t be, it decides,
And it again takes to the skies,
To repeat it all again.