Pillars of smoke rose into the grey twilight from many areas of the fields. Too many pillars to count with only your eyes. The scent of burning flesh bombarded every surviving man. The survivors were searching the fields for every last body. None should, or would, be left for the carrion eating crows. Body of friend and foe alike were tossed into the blazing infernos, their ashes lighting the dark blue sky. As the corpses were gathered others attended to those who had been wounded in the medic camp. One wounded and dying soldier began to chant in a raspy but powerful voice.
"The sky is crimson
with the blood of our dead.
The earth doth shudder
for that which was shed."
The wounded man coughed; a red spew appearing on his torn jacket. He regained as much of his composure as he could muster and continued with other voices joining in his mournful song.
"For death is calling,
calling from our graves.
The black mists whisper;
for us, it craves."
A thin stream of blood began to run from the man's mouth. He took a deep breath. His voice began again, but was drowned out by the mass of other voices rising from all parts of the fields.
"The dark hand, grasping,
pulls me close.
And to me utters,
'you're coming home,'"
The man let out his dying breath, his last song still upon his lips. All the men on the fields were now singing; finishing the hallowed tune that he would never complete.
"'Back to that brightness
from whence we came,
back to the luster
where all is same.'"
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