Thursday, September 4, 2008

Highland conflict

The distant echoes of the pipes in the mists, the air impenetrably white,
The footsteps and heavy breathing from the march hang in the clouds
Too many dead in these highland wars, too many wounded souls
Clans line up and charge, leaving broken bodies and no sounds
But the shattering of shields, the crashing of bones, and mournful cries
The ever growing piles of the dead, stinking, while storm clouds approach
Surrounded by craven scavengers, above the field the clouds thunder
While looters of the bloody bodies desecrate the place,
Covered now with maggots and flies, bringing only misery
To the purpled host of the epic dying numbers.