Poem: My Hovel

My Hovel

In my putrid hovel the fire burns low

For sustenance I have a pressing need

This wrenched meat has died days long gone

But I am starving, therefore I must feed

This bloody war has drawn on far too long

This horrid thing has robbed me of everything

Where are my sons, so youthful and so strong

They, struck down by a wretched ox hide sling

Armed with copper spears we marched off to war

I had never made it to the battle

An illness struck me, I could fight no more

Left behind, my people slaughtered like cattle

All because they don’t worship the same gods as us

Now who cared, the gods have forsaken us