Joan of Arc

He sits upon the far side of the river shining blue; it’s the day of battle, and hope, when the English meet their doom.

The sweat upon his furrowed brow stings like a fly. The smell of a thousand unwashed men, of dirty horses, and lye.

His courage begins to slip away, the October wind is cold. The shining of their metal shields, their taunts haunting and bold.

He turns to look away in fear and there his angel stands. Her halo reaching for the hidden sun, her voice an eagles cry. Her sword shines like the copper fields; her face is bathed in light.

Confidence returns to him, the lord is on his side, those heathen English conquerors will not see morning’s light.

The clash of metal, the sound of shields, the battle’s joined in might. The English arrow makes the day, his men turn in flight.

They look up to see their lady, her visage a dream of hope. It’s the angel Joan of Arc, the awakening of a sirens cry.

The grey clouds part in the sky, the sun comes shining through, she charges upon the enemy, her banners red and blue.

The men jump back in the fray, with righteous strength of hand, Joan of Arc has won the day, her belief in the lord’s plan.

The river blue runs red with the blood of horses and men, mercy upon deaf ears as day turns to grey.

He sits upon a grassy knoll; his life is at end, his final thoughts are of the lord, and if he is in her hands

 

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