Calloused hands work on the temple walls
attempting to soothe the spirit within.
Thrashing more and more as the sun falls
With every burdened shove, the night begins.
As the light of the day fades quicker,
more and more restless it grows.
Don’t just stand there, the tall trees whisper,
and the man, he draws his sword.
The blade,
a gift from his father.
His only weapon made
to brave against the world.
The spirits, they have a weapon too.
Given to them by the very gods
for whom the man obeyed and slew.
He prayed,
he slaved,
Each and every day.
The white snow crunches under the man’s feet
and black blood taints his clothing.
It is dark; his ears fill with his heart’s beat.
He picks himself up again.
Why does he continue to fight?
For himself? For his father? For a family he has not?
No,
Write your place in the world with the tip of your pen,
he is told, by the gods who strike him down
time and time again.
He fights simply because they demand it so.
For the future,
is what they say,
For all the riches
will be yours someday.
See,
The man, he has no such ambition, to be
Useful is all he wishes for,
But in the end, here he lay,
Dying, his hands stained with gore
Youthful glow obscured by grey.
And no longer can he soar,
with his dreams strewn about the floor.
The gods, they come, with a frown
to scold his body on the ground.