Birds Clear The Air
Birds clear the air – the arrows fly –
The smell of blood – 'tis time to die;
A hail of wood – hot bodies yield
Grow cold upon the crimson field;
The marching feet shake now the ground –
And all the while there comes the sound
Of sword on shield – the screams of death
As soldiers take their final breath;
What profits from this battle scene?
The spoils hard-earned yet so obscene –
A strip of land – some treasure – gold?
Is this all worth the death of bold
And decent men who go to war –
And never question what it's for;
Methinks perhaps the answer's 'no' –
But lost amongst the ebb and flow
Of savagery – noblesse oblige –
'I give my life for you – my liege';
A simple world of times gone by
And not for us to question why;
But still years late one hears the call
Of those earmarked by time to fall.