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He didn’t have a native land, 
therefore, he had no reminiscences of any sort,
neither good nor ill, other than reckless killing 
at the battlefield where he was compulsorily taken into 
and deployed to fight unwanted fight: the legend of warmhearted provisions provided in the name of el Cid Rodrigo Diaz De Vival
to the foes is only the beautified story of Castile.

The Faithfulness that even risks own life for fidelity is
though lonely one’s heart’s desire, he knew not the friendship
for he lived the life without a friend other than ghastly cry of tottering, collapsed, crawling and mutilated bodies of neither to call the enemies’ nor friends’: the beautiful friendship that of Pythias and Daimon is
the drifting clouds above the Sicily, it is the fancy of dearest wish,
the concocted tales that to honor the tyrant of Syracuse.

He didn’t have a home; therefore, he doesn’t know what is the love,
other than the deep wound of maternal love he saw at the battlefield;
the grief that of an old woman who was holding her slain son in her arms 
with absent-minded, who was washing the blood off
from the slaughtered son’s face with tears: it is the horrifying myth 
of Persephone who can only able to have a stillborn child.
It is the dark shadow of the daughter of Demeter who goes back and forth 
along the other side of Styx counting days till spring is to come.


He didn’t have wife, therefore, he lived his life without knowing 
what is the intimate love, other than touch of a foreign woman
who sales long kept chastity for a loaf of bread in the gathering darkness; 
who weeps alone in the ruin at the roadside where 
the cannonade booms to deafen the air: it is the shadow of the curse 
on Oedipus who though able to solve the riddle of Sphinx
able not to flee from the irony of life. It is the damnation on the king of Thebes, who roams in the darkness led by two tender aged daughters.
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