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,
Lush fields beyond
These gilded halls,
Filled with vibrant green
Waves of flowing
Filled, over run
By millions of feet
Eternally locked in glorious battle
To return that night
To mead and feast in the throes
This is the world
Of which you dream
Trapped in sand and blood and screams
Where there is no glory
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
Could you look your ancestors straight in the eye
And tell them your battle, your death
Was as honorable, valiant
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