Biting, shouting, crying

A rock, pressed inside his fist, real, unrelenting

Pain is in tired feet upon unknown roads, wandering. Days pass and no roadsigns point to where I should go.

An arm used to a fiddle bow, now used as a weapon

Pain is in sleepless nights and frantic questions. Who knows where they could have gone.

A success, a failure, a futile charge

Pain is in rest upon hardened floors and starless nights. Hunger brings more harm than those who stalk the halls.

A memory of days passed, laughter, victory

Pain is in goodbyes said for those you have never met. Letters, flowers, parcels, songs...

A careless strike, the rush of battle

Pain is in turned backs as I go on alone. Oaths given, oaths chased, how many years since...

A jaw reaching towards an open arm

Pain is in solitude. What have I done?


Will I ever play you the songs?