Icicles draw out
like sword-blades, stretching out and
down to the cold ground.
Just emptied footprints
fill in with snow erasing my
existence—step by step.
My soul aches with the
west wind, nearly frozen by
torment, by sheer shame.
Night is coming soon—
a chance of peace in the dark,
though temporary.
At campfire, spirits
of my brethren join with me,
and they speak to me—
Souls rising in smoke—
writhing, bemoaning my fate,
the ignominy.
And they speak to me
of nirvana to come. And
they urge me onward…
Onto a meadow
perfectly, evenly set
whitest of new snows.
I shall find this place
with the coming sun, there I
will stain the snow red.
Absolon's Sword
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