On War (by the Khinasi poet Tashairah)

On War
by the Khinasi poet Tashairah


All the great poets sing of war.

They sing of the trumpet's silver-throated clarion, calling men to glory.
They sing of the emir's banner, streaming scarlet and violet in the dawn sky.
They sing of breastplates buffed to a mirror shine, and helms topped with wide horsehair plumes.
They sing of steeds, destriers broad as barges, roan and black and dappled, dauntless and bold.
They sing of the glorious chime of scimitar against longsword, music for the ears of Khirdai.
They sing of gallant knights in a row, tabards a blaze of colour, a stalwart bulwark against the forces of evil.
They sing of driving back the hated invaders, reclaiming our glorious birthright.
They sing of hard-won coffers of spoils, spilling glitter onto dusty tent floors.

I will not sing of these things.

I will sing of the carrion birds circling.
I will sing of a boy, scarce old enough to shave the thin down from his cheeks, crying for his mother
as his lifeblood leaks into the dust.
I will sing of digging tiny graves
just big enough to hold tiny babes.