Under the shade of the scorching sun,
in the afternoon that combed furs and satin down
was laid none other but a knight whose return longed true and hard.
His hand hidden under his head, scabbard devoid of curious metal,
and despite the graying lines on his face—a moor reminder that he no longer lunge like he used to—;
his smile was the brightest that day, and true, and longful,
that of which will be longed again for thousands of decades,
but he was not about to die, no.
Death is inevitable in his age, in his hand, in every waking moment he rode
unto battles that he could only won to restart again.
But he thinks not of death at the time,
neither acceptance nor reluctance were present to him.
And in the afternoon that combed furs and the washed out color of his hair,
he looked far ahead to the grassy hills, back turned against the bustling market,
before whispering quiet and content,
tight lips that barely speak now curled upwards, to mouth: “You will live.”