When tempests rage, men turn from words to steel,
With fury’s cry, they charge to meet their fate.
The earth doth groan beneath the war-torn heel,
While silence waits, unbroken, at the gate.
A thousand souls to dust and shadows fall,
Their names but whispers in the reaper’s breath.
The fields are crimsoned by ambition’s thrall,
As wisdom slumbers in the arms of death.
And yet, when fires have scorched both heart and land,
When grief hangs heavy, choking dawn’s first light,
The victors and the vanquished, hand in hand,
Seek council’s table, craving reason’s sight.
Oh, had they spoken ere the swords were drawn,
Peace might have reigned, and spared the blood-soaked dawn.
JH

Art By Julan

