The hero enters
Riding a majestic stag.
Flowing over the battle ground
Waving his victorious flag.

The fight is over,
Yet few remain.
But to him,
It's all the same.

His battle is fought,
He has won.
Save the women and children.
All else are gone.

His conceited air,
His clenched jaw.
He longs to tell people
Of all he saw.

But he soon finds
Upon his return
There is no use
To let the fire burn.

The village is plundered
The houses destroyed.
There is no one left
Who will cry with joy.

So in his despair,
He sits and weeps
For in his victory
Misery creeps.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Daedalan, in the year 364 AF.