The Long March Home
A sudden awakening,
An urgent hand shaking my shoulder,
Through weary eyes I see the valley blackening,
Their steady thunderous march animates river and boulder,
Allowing only a moment's reprieve in the timid morning light,
Somber clouds and solemn faces,
Ashen skies and scarlet fields,
Shattered shields and fractured maces,
Orphaned swords with scarcely an arm to wield,
The shrieking wind rattling through the city wall's carapace,
Echoed by scouts' shrill cries from atop a battered tower's terrace,
Marking the end of the end,
All eyes turn to me,
Warriors and brigands,
Farmers and merchants,
The infirmed and elderly,
Their condolences and pity cannot allay my crippled conscience,
When staring at my daughter's lifeless body,
I ignite her boat and set it adrift,
Trusting that the flames surrounding her will mimic her father's touch,
Silently praying that my own death will arrive as swift,
And let go this life I tenuously clutch,
So that I may rejoin my wife and daughter,
A deafening crack and the gate is cloven,
Their arrows spurn the sun donning the land in a decade's first night,
With mechanized frenzy they swarm the city,
The rational flee while the courageous fight,
I lay down my weapons,
Embracing my family,
As the first spear pierces me.
Copyright © Michael Zavaletta | Year Posted 2015
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