Abbot Suger
06-04-2008, 14:32
Like the mist that shrouds the battlefield, or the blanket of the dead as I have heard it to be called, the spirits of those that perished here and everywhere else affected by this vile disease we call war, will eventually rise to the Heavens where they shall meet whoever waits for them there. Are these Gods of war so indefatigable in their lust for blood? What sacrifice will quench their appetite for destruction?
In the distance, something rises, but it is not the sun. It is the antithesis of joy, a black sheet of smoke slowly descending into the air, blotting out any good that could have possibly survived this tragedy.
Now here we are, with not even a shadow to keep us company for the sun has died the same death as our forefathers.
But hark! What is that? In the distance I hear the cry of a thousand soldiers and the thumping of a drum, beating in time with my quickening pulse. They march, while we sit and wait.
In the distance, something rises, but it is not the sun. It is the antithesis of joy, a black sheet of smoke slowly descending into the air, blotting out any good that could have possibly survived this tragedy.
Now here we are, with not even a shadow to keep us company for the sun has died the same death as our forefathers.
But hark! What is that? In the distance I hear the cry of a thousand soldiers and the thumping of a drum, beating in time with my quickening pulse. They march, while we sit and wait.