I look at the massacre around me
and see.
I see battalions of men and women fighting.
I see the corpses of the defeated
with the memory of blades on them
and the gratification of the victors
with their bloodstained swords in hand.
I see friends and family weep for the fallen
and swear to avenge them.
I see mothers hold onto the cold bodies of their sons
and fathers getting ready to bury their daughters.
I see orphans too young and innocent
to fully comprehend what is happening.

Some fight out of anger and spite
and others out of pride and duty.
Some say it is for their kings and religions
others, for their honour and blood.
On either sides, pain and grief
outshine triumph and satisfaction.

Amongst the combatants,
A man sits on his brown horse
watching the massacre unfold.
Hair and beard like flames,
scars on his face
and eyes the color of the blood being shed before us,
he stares straight at me
as a man is stabbed in the back right in front of us.

His face is expressionless,
almost like a mask,
and the only decipherable emotion
is the burning rage dripping from his gaze.