Two iron-clad warriors stood in a desolate field.
One, teary-eyed and furious, would not let her vanquished country
perish; she was the last, after her none else.
The other felt selfsame pain as the end of her kin.
War had devastated their land, their people. They alone remained.
So they clashed – sword on sword, cries for the slain
echoing through unharvested, wilting grain across the grey horizon
as there were no ears to fall on.
Exemplars for their nations they had no equal until they found each other.
The clamor thus was matched, blow met by blow; they knew their craft well.
But their hearts knew the awful truth – the victor is left in the new, startling world
while the fallen, defeated, mustn’t confront the future.
They fought on, always in full hatred but never in full strength
lest she strike down the only one who understood.


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