The imperial decree arrives by night, Stripping the aged father of his right To rest his failing bones upon the floor; The Emperor demands his blood for war. No healthy son to bear the wooden shield, Just ancient weakness meant to rot and yield; She watches father cough up phlegm, And takes the brush to write his condemnation. Before the family shrine she kneels alone, And cuts her hair against the heavy stone. She binds her breasts with strips of salted hide, To crush the soft curves of a maiden's pride. She slips his worn armor on her frame, Discarding forever her birth given name, And steals the iron stallion from the stall, Before the dawn can touch the courtyard wall. The training grounds are choked with dust and gore, A brutal slaughterhouse masquerading as war. The general screams commands through broken teeth, While maggots writhe in rotting flesh beneath. She learns to hold a heavy bronze-tipped spear, And swallow down the paralyzing fear, While hiding in the shadows when they sleep, So no one sees the secrets she must keep. They march for months across the barren waste, Where starvation and dysentery chase The starving regiment through thick snow, With freezing winds that bite and lay them low. Men die of gangrene in the dead of night, Too weak and broken for the coming fight; She digs their shallow graves in frozen clay, And steals their scraps to make it through the day. The ambush catches them at Black-Sand Ridge, Where blood runs thick beneath the wooden bridge. The Tartar horde descends with flashing steel, And severs limbs with absolute appeal. She watches comrades crushed beneath the hooves, As fire burns the distant village grooves; Her sword is wedged in bone, she pulls it free, Drenched in the slaughter of her enemy. There is no comic cricket on her shield, Just screaming dying men upon the field. No dragon ancestor comes down to save, Just open pits to fill another grave. An arrow rips right through her armored thigh, As burning bodies fill the choking sky; She cauterizes wounds with boiling lead, While standing ankle-deep among the dead. The war is won, the northern threat subdued, The emperor's decree at last renewed. They offer her high rank and noble gold, A hero's story to be proudly told. She begs for nothing save a rapid steed, To rush back home before her secrets bleed; She rides away from glory and from fame, Bearing the hidden scars of brutal shame. She walks back through her family's timber gate, To find her father kneeling at his plate. She drops the armor, lets her long hair fall, A silent ghost returning to the hall. No grand reunion can erase the sight, Of all the corpses rotting in the night; The war is over, yet inside her head, She remains forever sleeping with the dead.
