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?