Guileless white, pure, they float
Upon the blue canvas that God once wrote,
Morphing with the wind, to scenes of battle
A few smiling faces, and women who tattle.
Hours they can go on, if leisure you will to spend,
From the early morn, till the day calls it an end.
Across the white, spread streaks of grey,
Masking the beauty that hath defined the day,
The skies now awash with the cloudy clashes
Of sword fights unseen, yet clear resonant flashes
With the sound of mighty thunder gods at war,
Battles have bled skies onto lands afar.
Yet pure the undaunted spirit of the whites,
Colorless - the blood that flows from the fights,
The darkness has won, this battle now rests,
Wounded in form; pride - beam the chests
Of warriors, who await for their turn to get even,
Clouds on battleground; its now the war season.
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