The tapestry of blood
Gives birth to rotting flesh
Corpses stacked, exposed bones;
And hollow, empty skulls.

Withered hands lay open,
Their fingers curled en masse
With nothing left to hold,
They claw toward the sky.

Upon the killing fields
A mist now settles low
Where once the trees were still
And flowers bloomed year round.

The flowers now lay flat
Trampled by horses’ hooves.
The trees are etched and scarred,
Marred by the axe and sword.