Waist deep in barley stalks,
the warrior strode toward an unknown foe,
and above, half the sky of risen moon and stars,
the other a sun tainted by darkened cloud,
and he alert, as if he would fight for night or day,
but new not what he must face in battle.
His sword was true, of hardest steel,
the marks of battles past and blood imbued,
and he was a brave and polished fighter,
not fear but will did drive his mind,
as the sound of zephyr touching fields
echoed in the silent expectation.
Then his foe appeared,
a monstrous man with the head of a bull,
armor glistening in the half-light field,
his eyes black with determination,
as he let our a roar, so ferocious
a chill beset the warrior,
as he advanced to meet his adversary.
The swords clashed and sparks flew,
the singing of metal echoed loud,
as sweat and blood and groans ensued,
and no quarter was given, no lapse in will,
just the clashing of steel, two enemies unrelenting.
For hours they fought their battle,
until both upon their knees
could not raise one more stroke of the sword, one more parry,
and in respect of each other and the fight,
they sat quietly to contemplate their plight,
the battle unresolved, none to take victory,
in this half light battle of day and night.
Instead they looked upon the sky and thought,
that not one would be victorious,
and perhaps in that light,
the moon shall have the night and the sun have the day,
and end this struggle of life-giving sun and envious moon.
To this day it so remains.
Tony DeLorger © 2017