When the Sword Sleeps

When the sword sleeps, but the heart is still burning,
To whom does the battle belong: to me or to the shadow?
Is it worth going where will dies,
And the trace of honor vanishes on the path?

Does being mean believing in the truth,
That the world has not rotted, but is simply tired?
Or is it better to disappear into oneself, as if in an enclosure,
Where every choice is scorched by pain?

I saw the day that killed the night’s silence,
I heard a love that would have been better left unheard.
I touched betrayal, as if on the day of parting,
And found no harbor in his eyes.

So let death not be merely a payment,
But that word which is not given to the living.
For who are we, if not bodies with a crucified
Soul that cries out in the unknown?