Ficlets

The widows cried and the the mothers wept
Holding tight to the children they’d kept
Their eyes raised to the flags we were flying
As we rode over their dead and their dying

We passed beneath the broken arches
The boys in front beat out victory marches
On the drums that mark them as our slaves
On the drums they’ll take to their graves

My men cleared a path for their one true king
Raised their voices and all started to sing
Chanting of death ,chanting of fury
Chanting of justice and chanting of glory

We reached the gates of the inner keep
The old king and queen knelt at my feet
Begging for mercy, begging for their lives
They want to live, while their city dies

We made them build their own funeral pyre
And all backed away from the heat of the fire
Dressed the townsfolk in chains and rags
Marked their arms with a burning brand

And so we return to our place of birth
Bringing with us anything of worth
Leaving the city to burn in the fire
The latest victim of the latest empire