The Trumpets of Sorrow

There he lay, in midst of nowhere, 

a battle long fought, bodies scattered everywhere.

Moans of the wounded, sirens of shells 

He could only wonder for the promised heaven,

there he was in middle of the hell. 

He couldn't grieve for a grief so profound, 

all he could hear was maying horses and howling hounds.

Bodies charred by fire of canons, 

Yet, he thought of his maiden, his shanon.

All would be quiet soon, he knew his death will come.

It was a matter of time, yet there was a lot to be done.

If only, he could get a day

to say it all what he could never say. 

Alas, he knew his last is to come,

then the world will perish with all he had inside,

He would never see her again, his beautiful bride

A distant sound of bigule added to the mockery

There he is dying for some proud kings crockery

Travesty of life, for subsequent to his demise morrow, 

there were bigules of victory not trumpets of sorrow.