Terry D. Sutherland

WHEN THE ARMIES MEET

Dust rises above the legions
Covering the centuries one by one
They march through the seasons
The dust blocks the summer sun

Leather the shields and bronze the axe
Six foot pikes pierce the sky
When the armies meet and clash
Streams run crimson when they die

Generals stand on distant hills
Watching wordless through the day
A thousand soldier’s blood is spilled
The generals have no words to say

The dust is now a crimson paste
Under the soldiers as they lie
A thousand soldiers now lay waste
Only the generals wonder why