it was so close one could see
the bloodshot emptiness of their eyes,
one could hear
the rabid screech of their hideous yell:
it was not mad; it was not madness;
it was the wildness of a beast
from the forest from whence they charged.

In the village nestled in the hills above,
both nobles and peasantry
peered down on that field of savagery
in fear of the raging hoard
and
in hope their proud boys
standing in their unflawed straight lines
with fine uniforms with perfect gig lines
and
matching visored covers
would prevail.

the canon and the line of muskets
lit the early morning
with bolts of fire,
disrupted the silence of the morning
with piercing blasts of canon
and
crackle of musket balls,
cutting those immersed in beastliness
to smithereens,
decimating their ranks
to screaming whimpering piles
of decimated beggars
pleading for aid, mercy,
even merciful death by the blade.
the prince who ordered the maniacal charge,
himself a victim of the carnage,
lay under the carcass of his noble steed,
moaning in the throes of death.

the nobles and the peasantry
looked down from the village hills
not with joys of victory
but
in silence,
viewed the bloody field.

the generals in their castle high
cheered and toasted with glasses of sherry
for a victory they had not won.

The opposition stood
with canon, musket, bayonet,
their weapons at their side,
they were men of military precision,
not a thread harmed;
they did not cheer
but
stood ramrod straight
with tears running down their faces
in silence, perhaps mournful.

the bards back then wrote with praise
of the glorious enemy defeat,
of the heroes on their side;
the minstrels sang the same.

those men removed their regalia
and
went back home to farms
to work the fields, tend the livestock
but
more silent and reflective
than they had been before.

later on, the historians
wrote of gallantry, futility, death,
making the event of legend,
heroes of those that stood and fell
before the writers’ time.

dust and rain fell on that field
grass began to grow
with wildflowers sprouting in clusters
and
the earth absorbing the blood.

years later, a young lad
frolicked in the field with his dog
chasing butterflies or an occasional bird
when
he stumbled upon a relic,
a worn wooden religious symbol
where one of the wild men fell;
the lad did not know its meaning,
but
something in the breeze struck him then;
he gazed to the wood in silence
wondering what had happened
way back when.

No one remembers the whole story
what really happened is obscured
but
then and now, it should have been remembered
there are often those vanquished by war,
yet
there were only those who still stood
by those who fell;
no winning, no victors amongst them,
only those who lost something.