Pennance

Let off the reigns put down the whip, the horse trots feebly in.
You bring the news that men are dead; the war is ours to win.

So we ride cross open fields, and tender valleys green,
Where lies our future, our destiny?  No one has foreseen.

The fields turn red; the carnage here, brutality is shown.
What lies a day ahead of us?  Neither of us had known.

We found the war and it found us, waged for a piece of gold,
It wastes the lives of many men from young on up to old.

I see my son, he fights for me, with gallantry and pride.
I see my son, he fights for me, and on this day he died.

Arrowhead found tender skin, his shirt began to stain.
Lucky was he, died instantly, and I bore all his pain.

How cruel of I, the Noble King, to play with lives of men,
Now I am left with lonely nights to grip my sword and pen.

When ages pass and all my stories told,
There is no penance fit for me, the fires of hell burn all too cold.