Medieval Patriotism

The sharp cut of a blade, Stings your arm, As you fight a war, For your country, A millennium ago. The blade slices through your limbs, As if you are nothing more, Than freshly baked bread, Your luscious blood seeps down, Your limbless body, And forces you to scream, Scream with rage and assertiveness, You are dieing, And you hate it, One vicious blade swiped, Your life out from under your nose, And now you lie, bleeding, Like a beaten dog, In a lonely courtyard, Where everyone deserts your death, Out of shear fear that they just might, Be cleaved with a gleaming blade, When they stare at your bleeding soul.