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.