the paved country road swells under the heavy footfalls of the weary warrior

it is the dawn of march and the roses will remember the blush of death no more.

no more that is due to the sullen rock which the freshly smeared crimson slumbers upon

no more that is due to the holy droplets hauntingly trailing their way home from the sky

like divine reprisal

the heavens cry the loss which will be remembered no more that is due.

no more that is due to the village folks strutting about

rejoicing the return of the weary warrior

and his dripping sword.

no more that is due to the chaste maiden weeping in the wet meadow

for her freedom is gained

and another one’s lost.

the weary warrior moves along the muddy path still

while the dripping drizzle heartens his tired soul

for he know that someone does weep for the life which has been forcibly and heartlessly taken that day

that warm day of april struck by lightning and  thunder and fragile fury.

it is said that to slay a monster creates another

and to save a life a debt is repaid

for the cost of life

is a life still.

and yet the warrior moves along and does not weep

he’s coming home

and does not stop his heavy footfalls nor the beating of his erratic heart which has been yearning for it.

the fire will burn the remains of the day no more

but the fire was home too

the fire was life

and it has been extinguished.

the wary long-battled warrior is coming home through the cave and the meadow and the country path

for he has seen and lived it all and can never turn away from the scorching tear in his chest

and the village is his home no more.

the village is water and rain and it will not stop just like his tired steps

the whole world has sank away into the water

therefore the tired warrior does not return to the world

and instead he decides to return home.