Sometimes,
I cannot help my frustration
That I cannot be a wall to you,
A fortress with its moat full of rage at those who would dare harm you,
An impenetrable shelter
In the sanctuary of myself.
A word from you
And I am already astride my horse,
Cold merciless blade
Forged hot in the fires of vengeance.
I have no armour,
But this fight was never about me--
--was it?
As I ride out again and again,
Do the fields that sustain you
Lie fallow?
Do I neglect the walls of this keep
And leave them to crumble
As they strain to hold the land's every unfortunate soul?
Do I condescend? Do I patronize?
Do I give myself over to the sword
As the ploughshare rusts away?
The lashing out at your foes becomes a reflex,
And only when they have been dispatched with maximum prejudice
Do I step back from the fray
And wonder
If I, too, in the course of this war
Have forgotten those I fight to defend.