The sky, an orange-red,
like blood on a battlefield.
The clouds, fallen warriors
sent to their deaths.

Proud steeds of all types,
once carried men of virtue,
now hang their heads,
little more than nags, broken.

The women at home,
know not if their husband,
their father, brother, or lover,
if they live this day.

Night seems a gift
to the stifling heat of day,
and those who pick up the pieces
at the end of a war.