WHEN HONOR DIES

When wind has not yet begun to drift, nor seething mist from dew to lift.

The morning sun is dread to rise o're reddened field and whimpered cries;

Lost in the clash of twilight charged, lost in a flurry of courage forged.

        Where is honor when duty is done

        But a fallen knight must die alone?

The purpose of battle was never known, nor pure virtue ever shown

To those that in blind fealty rode, bound by an ancient silent code.

Into the fray they followed the call; trumpet of death and earthly pall. 

Where is honor when the debt is paid

        But a stricken knight must die afraid?

The Lords never left gilded tent, not risked so much as garment rent.

Long forgotten the cause of shallow rage, set by fathers in another age.

When will boredom or dwindling purse, end this needless bloody thirst?

Where is honor when no one does gain

        But a gallant knight by false pride is slain?

Kinjal of Moravia