{ ... }

 

۞

  With slags upon their hearts they go amidst the flying darts.  Many shots, many broken hearts, scores of woundèd soldiers.  Scores of scorning sisters.  Enemies entrenchèd, trusters with their trysters.  

  “General?”  

  “Hospital.”  

  “General?”  

  “Anaesthetic.”  

  Despite the address, men were falling by the thousand at every side.  

  It becomes hard to know which side is which in a city-at-war.  

۝