War, war, what is War?
Is merely a word to describe much more,
True it is potent, but in more than one way,
So listen a while, let me have my say.

War of swords, War of magick,
Is the only war of belittled minds,
That such perception is only tragic,
For War is not singularly defined.

War is not a mere pitting of might,
But the harshest contest of wills,
Be it through song, or by bloodshed and fight,
It is still War,
Be it the words of poets, or poisoned daggers in the night,
It is still War,
Be it the workings of politicians, or spreading of lies that blinds the
sight,
It is still War,
Bet it the scratch of a quill, or steel's cold bite,
Still it is War,
Whilst there be a contest of unbending wills.

If I am mistaken, feel free to correct me,
But the moment you do, you prove my point truly,
For henceforth wouldst commence a contest of wills,
And that is War, though blood be not spilt.


Penned by my hand on the 15th of Ferinus, in the year 435 AD.