Lore, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

From the dead.

It could almost not be believed, that place where my bones rest. The birds sing in a gentle breeze, and lovers find their refuge. As children play upon the grass, with sticks and wooden toys, I lay here as I have, with sword and shield in hand.

This was a place of blood and hate, a place for final stands. Where the roar of war echoed from the woods and mountains around. The charge, the yell, the crash, the pain, the pride in victories. Even if the latter lasted but a moment before death.

This place made so healthy, and fed so absolutely with the flesh of friend and foe alike, together underground. None dare to think that just below so many bones lay, the remnants of ancient wars to take or save from others.

But we can only watch now, our actions done long ago. Screaming we can hope they hear, but seldom do they know. We watch as children know no war and know little of true threats, they grow and never recognize, their ancestors’ regret.

Peace is for the children so they may stand on their feet alone. But without war they will give up all, never knowing what is worth fighting for. But here we watch in silence, friend and foe below the earth. Our blood and flesh since long ago, making this land bloom and grow. We may lay here forgotten, but we lay here all the same.

5 thoughts on “From the dead.”

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