To Abigail
I'm from..
I'm from sheathed swords, shattered spears and the slight breeze felt by the swath of scythes, not of battles lost and won, pyrrhic victories and hasty retreats, but the unheard army that trudges secretly, silently, dark horses as cavalry, lithe shadows as hoplites and very little known. I'm from the great salient, crushing forth, being crushed and rising again.
I'm from the echo of waterfalls, ambience of mists, fogs insidious with treachery, of fallen leaves- answering a traveller's shallow hoof, an uttered susurrus through the forests, casting winds high and low.
I'm from those gathered unseen, rustling unheard, of camaraderie never forgotten, living or dying, of loyalty thicker than blood and of spirit warriors past and present.
From advocates of chivalry and arbitrators of unheeded woe.
From possessors of kukri blades never banished.
From iron rods withheld.
I'm from vehemence soon to come; a torment. Tremors of sound without sight, moving through darkness as light, vaguely known, forces of upper echelons that fight the blight.
I'm from what was and still is fought for, cousins and friends and brothers and sisters of whispered prayers that alter the mighty currents.
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