For Leon, a mercenary. And for Paul, the Lord of the Wind
He walked as if a steady wind were blowing
with sparkling eyes, and sunrays lit his face.
They glinted on the sword and shield he carried.
He gripped his bow and lightly set his pace.
They looked aside. They could not stand the gleaming
of his great bow, a sweeping arc of night,
they would not meet the smile he’d always ready,
when playful winds set his fair curls alight.
He was despised, ignored, abhorred, detested.
He was a tool that none was proud to wield.
He held his outward smile and hid his feelings.
They were not needful on the battlefield.
Further afield the orchards were swelling,
their fragrance overwhelmed the land
but deep below another sound was pounding as he went ...
And he went where he knew none had ever gone before,
with the wind, the wind of war.
And it whispered in his ears with the voice of days of yore,
with the voice of the wind of war.
He would not talk – he bore his lot in silence,
for when he spoke they shook their heads and sneered.
His was the yoke of loneliness and violence.
Behind their scorn was everything they feared.
He would have tried to proudly meet their gazes,
but they were careful not to pay him heed.
They flinched as if they faced their deepest nightmare,
a nightmare they had nursed indeed.
Far off gardens were humming with summer,
on the slopes he could smell heavy wine.
Those who sow will also reap the harvest in due time...
He went on where he knew none had ever dared before,
with the wind, the wind of war.
It was calling him home, it was calling ever more,
with the voice of the wind of war.
So he came where all the fruit was bitter,
and the orchards started to decay.
He flashed a smile and wished they’d known it better,
That none should suffer and none should curse the day.
For he was where he feared, and he’d known the place before,
a place of old, the realm of war.
And with him they were there, those who’d laughed and scoffed before,
and they looked into the eyes of war.
And he mounted the horse that was waiting on the shore,
all the eyes on him – the eyes of war.
With the spurs and the reins but no power to close the door,
he rode the wind, the wind of war.
He was drawn into the storm and it pierced him to the core,
he felt the pain, the pain of war.
And it whirled and it reeled, all was smothered in the roar
of the storm...
The wind had ebbed. The place lay bare and quiet.
The fighting had dissolved, was lost and won.
He stood alone amidst the dead and the forsaken.
He gripped his bow and turned his face towards the sun.
Crystal 03/12/2002