Cries shrieks and guttural sounds
They form the chorus of the war
While the thumping of hooves
And clashing of swords forms the tempest
In the weather of war
Thick fog or maybe it's the smoke of burning flesh
Lies heavy upon the ground
While the battle sets are painted muddy and red
From the amalgamation of the flesh torn wounds
into a big throb of disgusting comedy
There is no escaping from this purgatory
Except maybe the moment when one lies cut open on the ground and heaves his last breath