Siege

Siege

Upon the grey dawn the banners hang low,
A shroud of silence over stone and snow,
The enemy’s eyes, like hawks, scan the wall,
While trumpets muffle the distant call.

Ramparts stand firm, their crenellations worn,
Each brick a whisper of ages reborn,
Gunners in turbans, their powder kegs primed,
Await the order, the fuse to be timed.

Sappers dig trenches beneath the moss‑soft earth,
Their shovels sing a low, stubborn mirth,
While archers loosen arrows like rain,
Feathering the sky with steel‑tinted pain.

Within the keep, the hearth’s ember glows,
Families huddled where hope barely shows,
Bread is rationed, the water runs thin,
Yet laughter cracks through the dread within.

Days meld into weeks, the sun a pale coin,
The besiegers’ resolve begins to loosen,
For famine and fever, relentless foes,
Sap the strength of the most steady prose.

At last a trumpet sounds—not of war, but peace,
A white flag fluttering, a weary release,
Gates creak open, the victors tread slow,
Handshake and pardon where erstwhile foes go.

The siege departs, leaving scars in the stone,
Yet tales of endurance are firmly sown—
Of walls that held firm, of hearts that refused
To yield to the night, though battered and bruised.