i shall make proper preparations for the grandeur of the task,
i shall tighten the laces of my boots (for there will be hazards aplenty, i assure you)
like, say, crepuscule hardening into molten metal,
and depths that might, should fate decree, betray me.
these details shall conspire quietly,
like the bulwarks of hisarlik before the horse, like the icebound rivers of volga.
by light seeping in at an indecent angle,
the floor becomes a frail page
of an epic i am ill-equipped to read.
woebegone and woe betide,
o chest of mine,
if the long narrow way should finally decide
to crush the hasty by crossing the immovable alps...
yet here i stand, undiminished,
reckless before the mark-stepper’s shadow,
in the midst of fear, i cry aloud:
“oh, tell me, o slithery brine and inert earth,
will achilles begrudge my hesitation,
will joan nod at the rigorous tremor of my heartbeat,
will the walls of raigad themselves disapprove
of a man who feared all and did none?”
i do not don gloves, what armor is enough
against the terrifying threat of immotile infrastructure?
the air barely swirls, the soil is still as ever
yet i think of war like on the eve of krasnoi, already knowing no one will arrive.
you think i am the first to shudder
before the agonizing trickling of inevitability,
to perform bravery in a place content
to remain quiet, impartial, mundane?!
recall, if you will,
the iliad, the sinking of the vasa,
the diary of a girl in hiding,
all marvels of courage in disproportionate space,
and know that my shuddering is but a footnote,
but a minor trifle in the presence of these legends!
and then!--
ah.
the danger remains intact,
and i, improbable as it seems,
survive with the faintest sense of victory,
over absolutely nothing.
no medal is awarded.
no epic will recount this struggle.
everything will probably be fine.
i am only slightly embarrassed.