Helmet at Midnight

Rain hammers a black field where rotted siege engines lean like broken scaffolds and a tattered banner flaps on a cold pole. At the front, an old iron helmet lies half sunk in mud, its dented brow catching a pale horizon light, as if it remembers a face. Nearby yellow petals form the blunt, defiant question spelled on the ground: WHERE VOJTA? — an offering and a challenge in the same breath. After the last clash the band cleared the worst barricades and walked the mud with low voices to make amends and mark the loss. They pressed petals into the ground beside a broken spear and a tilted stake, small acts of apology that smell of rain and iron and feel like a promise. Vojta is not here; the helmet gives only cold metal back, the question waits defiantly beneath the pale sky, and the search will go on until his name is answered.