![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/d264b4_58112c62592d4e75959eb2292dcac95a~mv2.jpeg/v1/fill/w_147,h_97,al_c,q_80,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,blur_2,enc_auto/d264b4_58112c62592d4e75959eb2292dcac95a~mv2.jpeg)
The heavens darken with a thousand crows.
Flags ripple in the wind’s lamenting sighs.
Smoke hovers ghostlike over fallen foes
Blotched over with aroused and feasting flies.
The ugly spectacle smirks back at me:
Another splendidly conducted fight.
Still, one remaining enemy runs free,
An arrogant contester of my might:
Though millions may kneel to me, I lack
True martial honor if I don’t subdue
This one my polished saber shimmers back.
It’s on—I shudder, and he shudders too.
Gleb Zavlanov is a poet based in New York City.