Becoming Charlemagne: Europe, Baghdad, and the Empires of A.D. 800

by Jeff Sypeck

Wars call. On all sides, a terrible battle is born. Brother kills brother, the uncle his nephew; The son now shows his father no respect. … This crime, which I have written in this poem, I, Angelbert, saw it—I fought alongside others. Of the many on the front line, I alone survived. There, from the hilltop, I beheld the valley deep, Where brave king Lothar crushed his foes As they took flight across the little stream. On Charles’ side, on Louis’ side as well, The ground grows white with shrouds to cloak the dead, Just as in autumn, when fields grow white with birds. This battle owns no praise; it is not fit for song. May east, and south, and west, and north Lament the men who died in so much pain. Cursed be that day. Let it be numbered not In any calendar, but expunged from all remembrance, Unlit by the sun, unlit by creeping dawn. That night—that dire night—and the day after— That night, tears and sorrow mixed, And some men died, and others groaned, forlorn. O mourning, lamenting: Naked are the dead. The vulture, crow, and wolf consume their flesh. Their corpses, vacant, stiffen; they have no tombs.