See that flag of white fluttering in the breeze so proud.
Against the ancient sky, held above a serene and patient crowd.
The soldiers magnificent in mien and dress, their general lifts their hearts with his blazing sword,
Exhortations of honor and pride fill their breasts as they watch the advancing horde.
How their eyes gleam in the sun without thought of retreat, their voices rise in unison as they lift armor laden feet.
Under their banner on high, each would be glad to die.
See now that flying crimson cloth, drawing ever near to the enemy's path.
Over soldiers as stout, in a breeze as soft, gently fanning the flames of wrath.
Has ever their loyalty waned? To their captain they roar in denial.
Will ever their fervor be tamed? Again they cry out, eager for their ultimate trial
How their spirits yearn for glory while their arms flash from sheaths, inspired by ancient stories while their sullen families weep.
Each one happy to die, under their colors on high.
See those proud and simple flags, laid low as the evening light fades,
On the broken blades of grass the heat slowly dries indelible stains.
Next to their fallen stewards who will never again fight for pride or power,
For the clash of silver swords no longer fills these starlit hours.
And their blood has washed over this field from wantonly opened veins, no longer can these armies conceal their colors are one and the same,
All now happily dead, under their flags of red.
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Comments about this poem (Flag by Dillon McKenna )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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