Joan's sword in her hand
My pen in my pocket.
Soldiers grimly march
I review my grammar.
The footman forgets his helmet
I scramble for a calculator.
We are the both of us awoken
By shrieking alarms.
Neither of us has slept.
He sharpens his sword,
I memorize one more date.
Together we see our fates:
His, written in blood upon the green solemn field,
Mine, written in words upon the vast paper white.
There is a nervousness in the air
Singing steel and fading ink.
We tremble.
There is much to lose today.
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