Armed, equipped, decorated in lavish armor. . .
fantasies of a bloody sunrise over the enemy.
Fantasies turn to reality with slashes of swords, loss, their numbers worthless.
Men fall onto dusty ground, drowning in pools of their own blood.
Bloody sunrise, I watched nightfall come upon the wretched territory of the enemy.

High pitched screams, pleads of women and children, chilling corpses. . .
destiny sought them as slaves if not perished.
Mothers watch sons slayed, decapitated, left without mercy.
My men lack empathy, slaughter, while watching fires cripple the city.
Bloody sunrise, I taste the metallic blood in the scent.

Theater of war, few remain, months pass. . .
fires still lick where their homes once stood.
Freedom stolen from families, bondage, tears spill like the blood of the deceased.
Stacks of cold unrecognizable men lay in the streets, decomposition burns in sinuses.
Bloody sunrise, I didn’t stop until Carthage was destroyed.

Bleakness, ash, dust. . .
left was bitter desolation.
Wind picking up the powdery earth, demise, and war fills the lungs of survivors.
My men wander the decay, ploughing salt over cinders.
Bloody sunrise, I agree there never existed a Carthage.

Remorse, sorrow, dismay. . .
innocence stolen from them.
Romans return home with celebrations, triumph, Carthaginians grasping to sanity.
People forgotten by Mars, now people remembered by Eleos.
Bloody sunrise, Carthage haunts my very soul.

Guilt. . .
reality of bloody sunrise.
An orphaned slave cries for it’s perished land.
His young eyes cry with despair, never to taste freedom again.
Bloody sunrise, what have I done.