The Last Village

He never thought to be a warrior.
He never saw the spirits of the old ones
in the fire, when the women sang
of heroes' rest between their blankets,
mindless for an hour...of the impending day.

He slept alone. No maiden smiled upon him.
It was well, that he alone preside
when all the breathless warriors would return
then grey and still amid the maidens' song
about another rest that cut the evening light
and drained it; he, the restless one
remained to cover them--restore them to the earth.

And was it then in vain
the warriors rode away? One time to gain
within their youth, the old ones' mist and smoke
that most would never see?
He thought upon it. He had seen them ride.
He saw the glory on their faces,
knew the nation's history was there inscribed
though for a moment, as they rode into the sun.
He was one with them, and time was laughing.

One
stood by
to chronicle the end,
to blow the feather of a nation fast away
and crumble through his fingers
that last memory.

And I still hear the war cries somewhere.
I still hear the maidens singing.
~