Heavy and splintered is the shield I heft,
But it still holds, as does our battle line,
Each man protecting the one to his left,
Scrum-pushing into our bloody foes,
Spears thrust over, swords stab under
The clashing shield-wall, and those
Who tire, fall back to puke and bleed,
Replaced by others who press into
The cruel fight where brute force or speed
Of movement, perhaps a fool's luck,
Are the difference between standing
Up afterwards to view victory's carnage,
Or resting in torn pieces on death's landing...
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