Weapons of Ancient Warfare

Brave are all these spears as they form lines and rows of walls,
as shields all laugh and cry as arrows bleed their very souls.
None, I say, shall ever beat these swords made by hearts of gold,
though not a blade, nor shield, not plate, has ever bled men bold.

So far, they march, these slippers, boots, and all these hooves,
into a land whose tears fill not, those cups of kings removes.
So now once more, two tyrants march, where dogs and mammoths dwell,
where swords will bleed, where shields will sing, all glory that of hell.

And so it ends, this sad, lone day, in winters long embrace,
where spears once stood, so brave and bold, now armors bleeding lay.
But oh for what, I ask, I say, these crowns know not a mace,
nor all these shields, in pieces lay, as lands all now decay.

As seen in the competition: Personification