Paul turned to face his brother,
Rick returned his gaze, wiped his left eye,
A leather thumb hidden from everyone,
Picked up black pitch and vile sweat, staining it with liquid darkness.
Both saw what their tireless work, Sharin's charge had covered them in.
Dappled, dirt caked skin, a stench masked by noise,
War kept them too busy to bathe, song was like water now,
It was needed to sustain life.
Seven ways to continue dismounted to collect,
Together, around a stream.
John aimed to press further on, regardless,
Rick redrew his bowstring, kept it taut,
Paul stood beside Rick, his polearm planted firmly at Sharin's side,
Kevin thought it best to turn back, Albert plucked a string to his support,
As did Richard with his bow wearing a fresh layer of rosin,
Christopher's flute, seldom used was anything but resolute,
It played a solemn solo, saw no other course of action,
Sharin wasn't sleeping well today...