a poem by Joseph Bednall, UK

The battle,was not long over,
the dead and dying lay all around,
grass once green,now a crimson red,
as blood seeped in the ground.

The victors were rejoicing,
with the vanquished in full retreat,
men fell down exhausted,
their blood lust now replete.

A herald, with his trumpet blaring,
lifted up his voice to sing,
"rejoice and be triumphant,
make way there for your King".

The throng stood back and then parted,
to make way for the King and his knights,
the King looked oe'r the carnage
and took in all the sounds and the sights.

He moved forward,to one of the fallen,
and said"losing you,is like losing a son,
the next worse thing,to a battle lost,
is that,of a battle won".

"I promise you now, my brethren,
in my eforts,I will not cease,
to push days like these,into history,
as we move forward,to a future of peace".

With these words,he now departed
and with him,his retinue goes,
leaving behind him the fallen,
the orphans, widows and crows.

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