Battle-brother mine,
how many times beside me,
our war-song sung,
with beast's-blood painted,
heaved you what might Gods gave you
against fiends and foes alike?
Well remembered your last glance
will be, has been and is-
your fine, wild-blue eye ablaze
with Life's-light leaving,
shield-shattered and shoulder-broke,
there amid the muddy hoof-suck,
adrift in hate-smoke and blood mulch,
the war-reek's tang so sick and strong-
still hums the vision of that last afternoon
when the bell rang backward through the throng
and Gods'-thirst reclaimed you unashamed.
No more deep clunk of mead tankard,
no more gift-giving in great-halls,
no warm, thick pelts,
goose-greased hand clasping
and proud victor shouts.
Now me, reluctant warrior always,
who thought to travel hence first,
tasked to touch the torch
to the pyre that appalls-
who would weep to see some day
a city without, rampart, fence or walls.
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