Blood pumping, face gleaming with sweat,
spirit soaring and dropping simultaneously.
Stars twinkling, lighting the field, winds blowing.
Heaving sighs, he stood there, short of breath.
With a sword in his untidy hand, his shield glistening,
with beads of crimson red hanging loosely in his other hand,
he could smell earth, blood, sweat, and ignited woods.
He felt strangely burdened by the cries of people;
defeated, even when victory was his.
He sighed, turned his back to the battered field,
joined his people and rode away.
He hoped that the picture would blur with the distance,
and the gloomy feeling would go away;
mindful of the fact that wishful thinking was futile.
For the cries that were imprinted on his mind,
and were now tearing his heart, would never dissipate.
Left with no choice but to be oblivious,
he let his horse trot him away;
with an agitated conscience and an aching heart!
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