You said the snow
spoke to you;
spoke to you
of harsh winters
and icy climes,
spoke of frozen soldiers
in Russian winters,
of Gulags and deaths.
You were one
with the wintery wind;
it spoke of shipwrecks
and ****** drowned,
of foreign armadas
with broken masts,
the high wind
and wintery palaces,
revolutions and blood
soaked in snow,
and armies lost,
and nowhere to go.
We are the soldiers
Of iron and led
We are the men
That steal all your bread
We take and we steal
What cares and what feels
We never stop thinking
What’s fake and what’s real
With steel jaws and bronze feet
We bite and we tred
On this barren land.
We rake and devour
Every thing that matters
We put up our flag
We sing and we wept
For a place and a home
Where no one will know
The hate that we’ve grown
We are Death’s assistants
Her breed and Her tool
To wipe the earth clean
Of the things we called cruel
We’ve lost all our names
We’re a thing and a number
For a government and state
That knows not our plunder
We fight and we die
For a hoax and a lie
That appears in the stories
And myths of child
This thing that we seek
It’s not Roman or Greek
It’s a thing that most search for
It’s called calmness and peace.
Iliad book two
never ending list of ships
Such a long list of ships and to be able to do it ****** by memory, impressive Homer!
armies of flood rush,
inundate all at its sight;
rude clouds laugh aloud!
History is written by winners
Their story's the one that is told
The loser's are like dust in a zephyr
Blown away by the wind and the cold
A battle is waged on a hillside
The armies are dressed in chain mail
One side is left battered and dying
So...which side will write down the tale?
A submarine sinks in the channel
It's just off the Dover coast shore
No one survives but the story
of sailors we'll here from no more
Villages destroyed by a virus
It spreads through the town really quick
You know that the story gets written
By the survivors who didn't get sick
Pompeii was wiped out, that's a given
A volcano did wipe out the town
The people were burned to a cinder
So who writes, when there's no one around?
In the movies the cowboys and Injuns
All fight for control of the fort
Do the Indians spread tales of their losses
Do they write it all down just for sport?
As years changed the stories came forward
Of the armies and people who died
They were defending their loved ones and country
It's too bad they were on the wrong side.
As time lumbered on to the future
The winners were not just the ones
Who told what had happened that day
They were not just the ones with the guns
Bystanders came and told what they saw
This would change how stories were told
There was now a new player with stories to tell
And the winners did not look so bold
Things now were written that no one did know
Of the other sides battle attempts
They were not heroes or winners but, losers no more
For these writings now made them exempt
They spoke of their battles, their loyalty, grit
To stand strong and fight for their lives
Even though it was futile, they still thought they would win
Thinking only of children and wives
Now history is written as quick as it comes
Television has surely changed that
You can watch things at home on your big screen tv
And you can feel like you're where things are at.
Deception is gone and the truth now is told
In seconds, not years like before
You see things as they happen, and the final result
May shake your soul to your core.
So....now History is written by winners
and by losers as well just the same
And no matter, whatever the story
You now know all players by name.
Regardless of whatever the story
Be it ****** or sports, games or war
We can now see just how each one has ended
And their honor, and that's what life is for...
****** thought it was a concept novel.
But wrong he was.
India knew Blitzkrieg long before ******.
In ancient dramas like Mahabharata,
And of course the older Ramayana,
The epics are replete with incidents,
Or rather determining acts of battle,
That determined the course of time,
Armies attacked the relaxing armies,
Changed the outcome of war.
So was the ancient Indian ideology.
My HP Poem #998
— The End —