An Xviiith Century Battle Poem by Agatha Eliza

These rusty swords dangle
back and forth
piercing my skin, bleeding
myself to death..



In this dream, I am chained
to this particular place
where the clamour of battle
makes me tear my own ears off
so I wouldn't hear
the thunder-like war drums
which are amplified by
the sound of rain
falling over the bodies..
In this concert of pain, I hear
the footsteps and hooves
of those trapped in the mud,
the splash of cold water
as they struggle to get out-
and those choked, weeping pipes,
the cannons making way
digging tunnels
into flesh and bones,
resting in a pool of blood
by the distorted remnants
scattered here and there like
the bunch of runes
released from a druid's hands..
and the echoing voices
that beg for help
as their lives are hanging
by a fragile thread.



My body is weary; a blurred vision
of disaster is projected
before my eye..the sky seems distant-
so are my lover's gentle hands, as
on a weak and trembling voice
the last goodbye is uttered
by a tomb upon which my name is marked,
and left some delicate, white flowers.