The Warrior’s Lament

The Warrior’s Lament

Wound, bloody, yet darkening into daylight, only to open once more at night some heavy night, beneath soft metal gear.

Then came the warrior, not screaming, but lifting his head not in mockery, not in pride, but because life itself had forced him to cry.

His eyes closed with tears.

Does it end?

A voice answered: Here is where you begin.

Your death is not your life. And without pain, what is the meaning?

I saw the warrior excavate a hollow in the earth, shaping it to the dimensions of his own form vast, yet strangely soft.

He closed his eyes with nightfall and gazed at the stars.

But he was far from the moon.

He sank into a coffin a ritual of vampires or of bats, or perhaps only of a human dying with purpose.

His eyes remained open, his soul unmoving, until the next day, when sunlight’s flame roused his body once again.

And he thought: Does it end?

The warrior rose, for suffering had kept him conscious.

Pain and purpose carved his destiny anew.

“Does it end?” he asked, and answered himself: It merely begins.

“I am” the only word escaping his mouth, carried away upon the restless air.

Is his struggle a question sent from nature to the mind?

Against whom does he fight? Himself? Others? Everything?

That day, I saw myself as the warrior, and my soul burning waged war.

And does it end?

What else could it be? Why do we all share the same destiny, though we take different paths to death?

Some live only a day, some longer, but the end is the same: a coffin.

The warrior whispered: “I only knew the sword.”

Yet his hands were empty.

Had he lost it , the meaning of life?

And if life equals death, is not the thought itself a delusion?

Then came beings of poison, crossing his path, narrowing his sight, until I felt they had stolen his very self.

Could this be truth? They seemed so calm.

Does he admit defeat?

The warrior spoke again, softly, a hazy voice tearing at his soul:

Death comes in forms. I have shaped it in this life.

The scent of blood lingered sharp, undeniable.

His sword bore its stain; its edge reflected in his eyes.

All around lay frozen ground, and yet a deadly tone returned those creatures to human form but soulless, sorrowful, with lives already ended.

And who among them remained? The warrior.

I was too certain not once, but twice.

It was no secret wound, but a word.

No mere hope, but a message to God a clear testimony of the soul.

Does it end?

The warrior had lived, and he must die. Yet the road before him was carved with meaning.

Does he know?