The Old Tree
It all began on a dark winter's eve, at the foot of the gaunt old maple tree.
There sat the leader, the master of plans. Many deceitful traps were sprung by his hands.
He sat before an audience, an ambient horde; at which he would shoot if he became bored.
They listened intently, for the topic was dire; finish the enemy now, or be thrown to the fire.
Defeat had been tasted, and the tree was their corner. Loss after loss, things began getting warmer.
They could feel the fire singe their backs and their noses; some could already imagine their graves with burnt roses.
As if the flame-bearers would dig them a grave; more likely cremation or life as a slave.
"The game's almost up, so let's make for the sea!" said the wily old leader with his back to the tree.
And the horde followed his brisk steps out toward the coast. Back at the tree, one could hear a distant toast.
"Here's to the flame-bearers and their ultimate power! In the face of such strength, our enemies cower!"
Children of the flame had gathered to boast: all were too drunk to think of the coast.
"The Ice Men run as if avoiding a stink. They'd be much better off here serving cold drinks!"
So went the revelry, long into the night. Soon all were asleep, ill-fit for a fight.
The Ice Men returned, and slaughtered all who were sleeping. As the burning sun rose, its children were weeping.
The gaunt old maple witnessed this scene, but said nothing. It just sat there…waiting.
On the very next day the two forces did fight. Upon that green they conducted the crimson rite.
They fought to the last man, then to the last corpse. Even dead, they showed no remorse.
The bodies faded to dust and the weapons were slowly buried, but there was more to the burden that field would carry.
The field would never again shine green in the sun. Innocence was lost, no matter who won.
The ground was stained crimson, like a corpse laid bare. Never again would trees grow there.
But one tree remained; the gaunt old maple on the hill. Despite the atrocities seen, it remained still.
Its friends had given into hate. No one was left to sit in its shade.
So the ghostly old maple remains to this day; to whom none has been given, and much taken away.