With winged helm and diadem, she watched him gallop by,

Wish me victory or deadly sting, but no long lonesome goodbye.

 

The odds were heavy against his breast, and still no sign from beyond,

She surely knew between her breaths, her time with him was gone.

But hope descended in the blackness, how shall we love anymore?

Our plans not sure of escaping, the battle betwixt the shores.

 

Shadows of impatience crept against the eager winds,

Of father, brother and son, of men who were our friends.

Pale morning rose all the empty, to the clatter of sword and shield,

To shouts and ghastly whispers, like messengers of ill.

 

She looked not at his eyes of bloodshed, nor mists that were abroad,

Eager for some sure tidings, the familiar face she sought.

And when his grey eyes beheld her, he paused and said, “Oh, well,”

The last of their autumns shattered, into her arms he fell.

 

Westward before them lay, the great banner of early morn,

Across the meadow played, the days behind him born.

Now marching o’er the sea, the bright light of the fleet were sent,

Waiting there in silence, their cup of courage spent.

 

The banquet hall was dark, the water gate held fast,

Narrowly they’d greet, walking towards their task.

Stripped of horse and sword, the great wall then closed in,

A naked, steaming bath of sons that were not yet men.

 

The tale is true they say, the battle was not ours,

They scattered all our strength, that night beneath the stars.