No Quarter, throats of wounded slit.
The party moves on into night, finds haven
in caverns of limestone shadows, these
traversers of ancient wonders below.
Even their horses, silent, swift,
seeking seeming minutes rest before
they start again. Both Hunter! And
the Hunted, they! This strange
and deadly army– Moving under
blackened flag, their desperate rage–
But in such valley of bloodied hands
history tells more tales of They, who
rest this eve on grassy banks– Sleep,
for at sunrise they move again for Sherman
who sets ablaze this fractured Nation.
A lasting image, defiance of the free.
Sleeps now beneath such shivering trees.