Today is too beautiful for anger.
The land is now amber
with leaves loitering everywhere.
Is it necessary
that war takes place here?
I don't like how they stand,
the tribesmen of the ashen sky.
They lick the broad blades of their spears
and bash their shields together
with each war cry.
The denizens of Phaithonta
are a shining example of civilised brethren.
I don't like how they stand, too.
All trimmed
and exuding passive aggression.
Both sides honour this battle
to their god.
Solar, god of light and wisdom.
Selene, goddess of might and naturalism.
To both side I nod.
There's so much blood to paint with after war,
as the land drowns in red.
So much to do,
so many bodies to carry,
and many more to put into coffins.
There are no winners in war.
Victory is too little a gain
for the pain received.
Having set next to former soldiers of both sides,
it brings me fright
the war they perceived.
I kick the blankets
hoping to tire myself out.
My performance at the gala is tomorrow,
and here I lay with dreams
haunted by poetry.
Will I receive an ovation?
Or will my debut demand scrutiny?
I wish to know.