A Depiction of Glory

The armies left

A few hundred men on the hill,

And there is enough blood for

The grass to grow.

The green is drenched in red,

These happy crows will enjoy their meal.

The smell of burnt hair

Like incense in the air,

And some quiet wails

Permeate to other dimensions.

It is all very still,

Only the stained flowers sway

In the cold wind,

And amongst the carnage

He plays the Danse Macabre

Gently on his violin.

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