168. June 17th
Atop the lamppost stands the sentinel,
He waits and watches all day long.
Cloaked in black, like a menacing guard,
Standing tall like a strong oak tree.
He looks on as the world goes round,
He watches all that happens below.
He waits for the final cry of death,
Before swooping down to collect his prize.
All around lie corpses of the deceased,
The once hardy warriors now food for the crow.
The one who feasts has won the battle,
For the two fighting sides have suffered defeats.