The Battlefield

We are preparing a dice-game

Of aligning and troubled forces,

Of tension, density and range;

To play not with fire, but with heat,

Or dare I say, the consequence of  grit

On order, vortex, turbulence and pits.

A thousand epics rise and fall

In each carefully crafted battlefield;

At the end there is but one mighty victor

An eternal song, an all-absorbing giant -

The one that has seen it all, and breathed;

The one, indifferent to size; hydrodynamic. 

 

Here we are, with blood and the battlefield;

Pages are coming back to life, and so is the ink.