by Stephanie A. Inman
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Grim silence flows through a firelit camp,
Broken only by the harsh scrape of a
Sword being sharpened
Many will die tomorrow in a clash of
Swords, Armor and Horses
Grim silence flows through a darkened camp
The battleground a damp jungle
In place of a scorched desert
Many will die tomorrow in a
Resounding crescendo of
Artillery, Aircraft and Guns
Light and music flow through a camp
Combined with laughter and cheer
No one will die tomorrow
Though armor will clash and
Bones may be broken
When the dust has settled
The people who fought will
Sit together and feast while
Recounting tales of
THE BATTLE