The crack of hoof and turning wheel, the step and fall of leather, by flag and torch and marked by line, as soldiers march together.
Cut deep, the frigid bite as dressed in threads with silver shine. Bound and kept by length and stretch, the harshest chords of winter. – As would set worse than steal in blade but less the pain of memories, I march from, not to, and lose myself to shadow.
With haste, as drum sets brisk, the trudge and measure of marching men – before battle and given to dread as comes with call to duty. For the lion, but not in fidelity of heart, in crime to the sentiment of love, I stride.
Should such honour be so blind, yet be given in name so righteous as would spill the blood of man. We journey in freedom’s name yet march in constancy of opinion. We are not gods but guardians, charged with the custody of faith and sworn to preservation.
I wish not the sun but suffer gladly the candour of penance, for such treachery in expedition of war would reap as we are given. My heart is frozen as my flesh and my eyes given to the darkness that surrounds.
In peregrination of distance passed, with space that grows. – By day and through night we tread in venture, before hazard and in retreat of love.
Hail the magnificence of our crusade, glory be to those who fall – for we must shine in the refinement of hardship, and give no complaint to hunger. We are slaves to the delusion of kings, as fuelled by delirium and lost to aberration.
And those who sleep, lost to season and given no turn in battle – for here no sword may reign, and snow shall hide the fallen.
The crack of hoof and turning wheel, the step and fall of leather, by flag and torch and marked by line, as soldiers march together – less some.