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This poem was written by student Michaela Wilkison in Writing on War, WRTG3019, at the University of Utah.


by Michaela Wilkison

Golden halls and vast rooms,

Oaken tables sagging under

The weight of fabulous feasts,

Horns filled with mead,

The golden, liquid gift of the gods

To warriors and poets.

Men walk those halls

Adorned with battle-worn shields,

Shining swords

And tale-inducing


Lush fields beyond

These gilded halls,

Filled with vibrant green

Waves of flowing


Of grass,

Filled, over run

By millions of feet

Valiant men

Crashing together

Eternally locked in glorious battle

To return that night

To mead and feast in the throes

Of victory.

This is the world

Of which you dream

Trapped in sand and blood and screams

Where there is no glory

No honor

No victory.

How could anyone celebrate this hell?

The gods have abandoned this war.

These are not their soldiers.

Even if you were,

As you wish, to die in this battle,

Would your soul reach these so desired

Golden corridors and emerald fields

Of victory?

Could you look your ancestors straight in the eye

And tell them your battle, your death

Was as honorable, valiant

As theirs?

Why, my love,

Is this your dream?

Wouldn't the gods

Feel more pride in your soul, your fight

If you came home

And continued your battle

Of life?

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