With slimmest chance of victory,
facing near certain defeat,
aged warrior contemplates
His tribe’s great and urgent needs.
Long gone are days of parley,
extinguished last hope for peace.
The flame of hatred’s burning;
against its strength can’t compete.
No longer truly matters
circumstance that hemmed them in:
Knows only course is battle,
though this struggle they can’t win.
Onward approaching dust cloud,
visible from far away,
is portent of disaster
from which there is no escape.
Swords are sharpened, loins girded,
they’re prepared for human tide.
No one discusses outcome.
Hopes and dreams this day will die.
With fury great and mighty
Warrior strikes the first blow.
With zero chance of victory
there’s no hope within his soul.