Song of the Burning Warriors

A line of rigid, stiff bronzed warriors.

Merciless rays of burning sun pummel them,

Slowly sending salty drops of perspiration flowing down their cheeks.

Yet they do not flinch.

Nay, not a toned muscle twitches as they stare off at the large, vibrant green trees ahead.

Inwardly they long for the shelter of the shade,

But they have been trained too well for there is no outward indication.

Into their left ears tumble the sounds of crashing and roaring water.

Oh, the tortuous sound of the frigid waves of water bouncing off smooth rocks and weaving complicated dances.

No monkey will screech even a soft cry. No bird will utter a single note.

The heat has repressed them.

The only sounds are of the water, of labored breathing and of the earth cracking and groaning.

Heat radiating from their fellow fighters mixes with the baking, parched earth below their sandaled feet.

Muscles ache at the very thought of standing for another minute.

The smell of decaying flesh floats by. No doubt a mammal or bird has collapsed from exhaustion and the heat is now frying it.

It blends with the smells of heat and sweat.

This torture is enough to drive a person insane.