I wept for him,
this man I’ve killed,
his eyes wide and lustrous before the night,
before the Taker, unseeing.
My boots pock the snow against a ruined ear.
Red on white.
Out of the East a wind laments,
soft as a lover’s kiss;
What mother will never bear his sight?
Or son come out his loins?
Alas, he will never again know Aenya’s beauties,
this mountain’s glory spread in virgin white.
I weep for whom I’ve killed
And leave him to be buried by the drift
though he was my brother as all men are.
A damnable grin along my still wet steel,
whispers that I follow.
And on I tread. On I tire.