The satirical king on his martyrial steed high amidst an everflowing onslaught.
To raise an arm with a shiny steely weapon, a steady gaze flowing from the moon.
Rain is beginning to fall, with my tears intermingling.
The eery call of the horn is raised to his lips, radiating his command.
In the blink of an eye, the whole army moves as one.
Every banner white in the moon’s glow, every chain-mail’s silvery sheen.
Rushing forward amidst the howls of the wolf pack.
In the eye of the wolf, the pack comes first.
Every single pup looking up to the leader.
From the forest, the animals have to rise up.
Birds are cawing, deer are running.
They have to move from their winter’s slumber.
A rush, a breeze, a painful sob.
The witch in her forest hut concocts one powerful spell.
Ignoring the calling of the horn, she works for the forest, for the animals.
The forest listens. Roots begin to tremble, begin to rustle.
Leaves are falling but the branches are moving, not with the wind but of their own accord.
The witch calls forth further life. Insects come out of their holes.
Forest giants begin to move, not as one.
Some slow, some quick.
Different tongues, different emotions.
Differing reasons to move, differing reasons to stay.
Wisps call forth the men in their steely armour.
Come to me, spell the sirens.
A beautiful harmony from between their lips.
Seductively calling forth all the men.
Some hold steady, some feel their own lust.
The army begins to stumble, begins to slow down.
Spears ram into horse and men alike.
The army falls into disarray, crashing down on earth.
Now, the forest comes a running.
Birds begin pecking at human eyes.
Wolfs eat from human hands and feet.
Horses buck off their forgotten masters, trample them into the dust.
Smashing faces, smashing in delight.
Running becomes their home again.
Running over fields and forgotten forest shelters.
Mothers and fowls.
The forest remembers, embraces.
The wolfs return to their pack, each living in their own order.
The forest calms down, goes back to where it’s from.
Nature has reclaimed man’s domain.
Nature knows her ways.
Nature goes on, there are no more horns.
There are no more steely weapons, yet the silver gaze of the moon glows unabated.
The forest witch still in her hut knows her forest, her home is safe.
She thanks the moon, she thanks her stars.
She may rest again, until dire needs might call her forth.
Brewing potions for animal and man alike.
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