This was my first attempt at narrative poetry. After this i wrote "Veiled sorrow" which i published before (if you havent read it go check it out).
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Once a hawk flew across a plain that he knew well,

but when he looked down, he saw a scene of hell.

The plain was crowded with men, smeared with blood.

Men were being killed and their heads would fall with a heavy thud,

as if all the dreams and hopes and memories had made it heavy.

He recognized these people, their homeland far away in the north.

Where their houses covered the hills and like beacons would shine forth.

Their children played in the merry street,

while their men discovered new lands,

searching for fame and glory.

Among these men he saw one,

tall, muscular with an armor that shone dazzlingly in the bright sun.

He wore an armor of iron
and wouldn't be distracted by a siren.

A long sword he held in his hand
and he leashed it knowingly,

like a dancer dances on the music of a band.

But no joy filled his heart as he did his work,

where it would have pleased any other.

For the bird recognized him as the prince of Ramas and non-other

The prince had always dreamed of a happy land

Then why, in a war he now took his stand?

Sadness glimmered in his eyes and shone upon his brow

But even in his sadness he never missed a blow.

For to his people, he was loyal,

and for their safety spilled blood upon his beloved soil.

The scene of war was common to the hawk,

when there was no laughter nor merry talk.

So he decided to fly across the plain but before he could, his steady sight settled upon the bay.

And from there he saw an arrow fly,

an arrow ornamented with feathers and with grace hailed in the sky.

And for Ramas's downfall, it became the reason,

for it struck it's mark and went right through the armor, piercing the prince' s heart.

A hush fell across the plain as the prince fell to his knees,

the wind died down and everyone awaited the inevitable,

For each in his heart wondered what this would mean for them.

Memories swarmed in his mind as the world became dark,

those of his graceful wife, his caring daughter, his loving mother.

Oh cruel fate! would he never see them again?

Pictures from his life shimmered in front of him,

and as he entered that fiery chasm from which one returns not.

And as he did, he realized his mistake,

his mistake of leading his people into war 

and that of spilling blood.

For what was the heavenly silence of peace,

If engraved by the clamour of war?