Thursday, June 15, 2017

Dirt, Death, Glory! (Fighting off Roots)

Dirt, Death, Glory!


F*** this root
I will kill it before break
Victory is nigh.

Battlefield Haiku


It is an auspicious day for digging; the sun beats down, strong and radiant, and the artifacts seem to leap forth from the earth.  Things are progressing nicely as the day marches ever onward, and then, everything changes.  Upon the horizon, appearing from the far meters of the trench, it arises: a tree root. This monstrosity is its own breed of evil.  Bursting forth within nothing else in mind but to destroy architecture and archaeological context.  Nothing could be worse.  I see my noble trenchmates do battle with the foe, only to falter, one by one.  I know my time is coming.  I know I must embrace my fate.

A deep breath of fresh air, possibly one of my last, a saw in one hand, and a pickax in the other, and I am prepared to do battle. My foe is daunting, but weakened from its past battles.  I have the advantage, and mustn't relent.  Alternating strikes from saw and pick, gradually I see the root weaken.  The moment is now and I must not, cannot, falter.  One mighty swing from my pick comes down upon the beast, and all goes dark.

My eyes open slowly, and as the world brightens. My vision is filled with the dismembered remains of the root and the battle is won.  I hear a cacophony of cheers erupt around me, almost deafening (albeit they are more likely than not, entirely in my head).  Regardless, I emerge victorious from my bout, bloodied, but unbroken.  The wall will live on, the trench will thrive, and my trenchmates and I shall live to dig another day.



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