This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2012, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
This poem was written by student Michaela Wilkison in Writing on War, WRTG3019, at the University of Utah.
Valhalla
by Michaela Wilkison
Golden halls and vast rooms,
Oaken tables sagging under
The weight of fabulous feasts,
Horns filled with mead,
The golden, liquid gift of the gods
To warriors and poets.
Men walk those halls
Adorned with battle-worn shields,
Shining swords
And tale-inducing
Scars.
Lush fields beyond
These gilded halls,
Filled with vibrant green
Waves of flowing
Blades
Of grass,
Filled, over run
By millions of feet
Valiant men
Crashing together
Eternally locked in glorious battle
To return that night
To mead and feast in the throes
Of victory.
This is the world
Of which you dream
Trapped in sand and blood and screams
Where there is no glory
No honor
No victory.
How could anyone celebrate this hell?
The gods have abandoned this war.
These are not their soldiers.
Even if you were,
As you wish, to die in this battle,
Would your soul reach these so desired
Golden corridors and emerald fields
Of victory?
Could you look your ancestors straight in the eye
And tell them your battle, your death
Was as honorable, valiant
As theirs?
Why, my love,
Is this your dream?
Wouldn't the gods
Feel more pride in your soul, your fight
If you came home
And continued your battle
Of life?