reddened a field with strewn husk.
Once green plains, now it is red
as heaps of warriors there lay dead.
The horses and their echoing clop
with setting sun somehow do stop.
At new day, on the very same field -
New souls would their swords wield.
Stench of blood none does compare;
martyrs are born in a bloody lair.
On tusker sat an emperor - The Great
who saw a region as future threat.
Readily piled corpses and bones,
thus survived kings and their thrones.
The king always remained unhurt,
while the commoners bit the dirt.
History tells a glorious king's tale,
while both horse and the hero fell.
Moans of families and their sigh,
got drowned in the horses' neigh.
Prasenjit©2022
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