Monks and Ogres

Cutting through the mist,
With footsteps light,
The monks made their way.
A battlefield littered with death and flesh,
A feast of the primeval beast.
On the blood and bones of the fallen,
Eyes burnt red, ogres of doom,
Armies had crumbled, none had stood,
In the face of overwhelming death.

Through carrion fields they marched,
Faded crimson fluttering bright,
The motley group of faceless men.
Blood of the fallen bathed their feet,
The ogres looked with bemused smiles,
The world watched and held their breath.

Furious flashes of lightning bright,
A thousand from the sky,
Burnt all that stood around,
Violent gusts of cleansing wind,
The Ogres stood no chance,
Some flew, some burned,
More blood on the soaked grounds.

Startled but not surprised,
The Ogre king attacked,
He knew this was the end,
For he had stirred a powerful foe,
Beware the anger of the silent men,
When they have nothing to lose.

At the battles end,
Nothing remained,
Crimson robes fluttering red,
Stained of monks and Ogres alike,
Death begets death,
But life finds its way,
When evil overwhelms,
The silent monks will move again.