The Ungrateful Survivor

Waiting for the sound of the battle horn to cry.
Prepared to fight, trained to kill, but I don't wanna die.
I feel it in the morning breeze, the chill down in my soul...
my muscles ache, my heart is numb, I just can't take the cold.
The trumpets sound as sunlight breaks across the fallen snow.
I'd rather be most anywhere, there's no place left to go.
They stole our young, burned our homes, now here we make a stand.
Will we live? Who will die? I just don't understand...

I see the wall of shock troops tall, quickly closing in.
The leader shouts, the charge is on, for myself and my friends.
The hate resides deep inside with vengeance and fury.
We pull our swords and fight towards the hopeless victory.
We pound and cut, slash and thrust, they just don't seem to fall,
appearing out of everywhere, obliterating all.
They drive our men into the ground; the hammer and the nail,
destroying every living thing...and then I see the flail!!

It hits my head, spilling red, the stings my eyes.
The dead strewn land of faceless men, in company I lie.
I lay alone, with hundreds more, the end is near I tell.
Will I awake near heaven's gate? Or spend my time in hell?
I hear the screams and wretched cries of creatures down below.
A slap, a kick, a garbled voice,..."GET UP YOU SLAVE, LET'S GO!"
The enemy has enslaved me, defeated the rest as well.
I'd rather be a cold-dead corpse, than fester in some cell.

-Sir Victor Rodrigue