parry, thrust,
    they shout, feet slipping through the grass;
    voices echo for blocks, joyful ricochet,
    leaves crash to each other, eyes meet in battle
    they stomp the ground, broken choreograph,
        and it holds them as they fall defeated
        the older stands in triumph, eyes gleam with victory,
        the hunt never as good as the kill;
        he holds the branch to his brother's neck, laughing to him victory,
        he holds him screaming to the blood-soaked dirt,
            and the child's eyes let out their last gleam shameful,
                he ran on the heels of triumph, never expecting its attack,
                    he lived gallant and free.
        
            The leaves pierce his throat; so he drops, silent to the ground.
        
Their mother calls and they run away laughing.