Through tiresome hungry nights,
The silver moon looks on.
My blade shines in the dark,
Unafraid of the impending dawn.
The traveling bands of broken men,
Hike wearily to find their home.
I wait in the shadows of an old pine,
Biding my time as they roam.
Their merry stories reek to high heaven,
Of their unwashed bodies and hearts.
With shattered destinies to mend,
Once again on their mission they start.
They talk of faraway lands and tales,
Of fair people I shall never see.
But I weave a tapestry of images,
Painted in colors glorious and free.
I should like to listen some more,
To know these ‘almost friends’.
But I know the time is near,
When means must lead to ends.
Lithe as the panther of the moon,
I strike; and they cower in fear.
I proudly take my spoils of victory,
And leave them dead, but dear.
And a haunting hum finds my lips,
‘almost friends’, I feel remorse.
But today we shall eat a bellyful,
And not worry about the source.
When the morrow comes I will cry,
At the last lost chance for peace.
Redemption comes easy to a soul,
But not to soulless ones like me.