The invading soldier follows behind, drunkenly smirking, whispering to her.
He clutches at her hand, says he’s in love, to his passions he thinks she’ll defer.
The looks to the stars through the lush trees, to the quicksilver moon, sighing.
Men are fools she knows, so easily led and trapped, dicks leading them to dying.
She stops him, finally, in a open meadow in the forest, a riot of white stars above.
He’s pulling down his pants, grabbing at her blouse, blustering about being in love.
She found him at the tavern, with his invader brothers, and she led him away.
He bought her smiles and flatteries, and for what he’s done, his death will surely pay.
Drunk and eager, her trips over his own pants, tries to rise again to his wobbling feet.
From the back of her skirt she pulls the pistol, the night’s mission now almost complete.
He looks up at her, the pistol pointed at his head, and he is silent, to stunned to cry out.
She shoots him in the head, and that he is gone down to hell forever, there is no doubt.
She walks back on the path in the darkness, the stars silent but revealing the way home.
She remembers before death and war, being a girl, contentedly eating honeycomb.
She puts the pistol back in the waistband of her skirt, and knows war is a long burning.
Put wood on the flames, burn them to ash, until all of it is gone and there’s no returning.