Heritage
“Of every illness in the book,
old age must be the worst!”
Say those who judge but with a look
and name their elders cursed.
Let none forget the name of death,
as shadows paint the ground.
And every time you hold thy breath,
be sure to look around.
For that which is, yet, yours with ease,
the dead will long for duly.
Wish not for sweet oblivion’s bliss
lest your wits be too unruly.
Forgetfulness, this shrouded threat,
that lurks beyond our sight.
It calmly whispers, “Do not fret.”,
as deftly it clouds the light.
Often wish we to forget,
the torments of the night,
or let it go, each harsh regret
that challenges our might.
Be tested or allowed to rest,
the darkness rushes in.
Each man then called to show his best,
or in doubt to stand between.
For elders, cursed or not they be,
have long decided, stood.
It’s you who’re strong, that’s left to see
how fares your heart crude.
If they be cursed and you be blessed,
why is it you who shakes,
upon the doorstep tightly braced
and wary of the stakes?
They rest upon their laurels earned,
you rest upon your pride.
They cry for all the bridges burned
and you laugh, when you can hide.
Of courses two, in honor none,
regards now from above.
Unless you dare to face your fear
your guilt, it won’t disprove.
Prepare for every day an inch
of pure unyielding will.
Jump with fervor in the ditch
and may your heart be still.
Let passion wash your fears clean,
and valor will shine through!
And when ‘tis time to test your heart,
despair will fear you!
All men are made of flesh and blood,
each one is framed by bone.
They can be, what holds the flood
or leave you all alone.
Defend your wall and hold your gate
The battlements stand tall.
Valor never comes too late,
to fail is not to fall.
Despair will call upon your door,
and you’ll one day succumb!
You’ll share your food and wine will pour,
of your courage, not a crumb.
She’ll stay and build her house on yours,
with timber off your walls,
you’ll scrub her floor, whilst on all fours
and praise her constant calls!
Is it not best, than this sad fate,
to die upon your feet?
Than live a moment longer, full of hate,
of your own sorry meat?
And thus you’ll stand and meet the end,
your own or that of war.
Your soul perhaps, will someday, mend,
but that’s won’t settle score.
And thus the young ones end their test
alive or dead as men.
And when they walk away to peace
they might be only nine and ten.
These old ones now can see the cost
their elders paid so young
And when they think of chances lost
they feel too mighty stung.
They crawl and run back to their farms
with hearts of molten pain.
And when their father grabs their arms
he exalts: “You’re back to me again.”
With tears on his olden face
and steel inside his heart.
He sees and feels each broken place
on his own very part.
And know you then, you youngster brave
that he could not foretell
that you would soon, too, risk the grave
and come back, him, to tell.
He fought and bled and feared his way
through every gate of blood.
But harder than all, he found the sway
of his own broken lad.
Who could foretell that this cold place
shall ask the same of all?
And when they fall in gruesome grace
shall turn them all to coal.
So pray for cursed wrinkled brow
and back that strives to bend.
And hope that your own younglings’ prow
won’t look toward that end.
