I Was Sent First.

I was sent first,
to the spot they couldn't place;
a village that's unmarked,
on their maps.

I came about the village,
when the summer tide was turning,
and the cold began to settle in.

The streets, though bustling,
were filled with people calm and still,
without regard to me, or any malice,
outside these city walls.

In native, unassuming dress,
a fox in feathers,
I took in the sights and sounds of peace,
for reporting to my men of war.

I saw a wrinkled man,
frail from the outside,
sitting at a storefront.

Playing his guitar,
he sang songs,
about the persistence of love,
and memory.

With gunshots and the sound of steel,
and neighing horses,
my men had come and found this place,
and realization struck.

When none were spared,
in the bustling streets,
which flowed with the blood of innocents,
and my own.