Praise them with Great Praise

- jan-u-wine


Delicate circlets
of fine-wrought silver
glint
against stained
home-weave.

They are waiting for us,
you know.

All those fine
folk,
waiting
on you
and me.

They
do not understand
you
can bear
no longer
the touch of a sword
against your
side….

they do not
understand
the only
honour
we desire
is the blessing
of Home.

Come.

It will be
no burden
to walk
in sweet,
spring-soft sun.

Just
one last time,
put on
the trappings
of our journey.

In the quiet
of this fine
pavilion,
behind the closed silk
which curtains
us
from those that
wait,
your glance
falls
to the clean space
that marks your hand….

and

flees from the sight,
as if it were
someone
else's
disfigurement
you see.

Even in this place,
this tent
upon grass-held
field,
there is a desk,
small, to the eyes of men…….
books and paper,
quill and ink,
waiting,
in prism'd light,
to tempt
a scholar's touch..

Your hand
brushes
the face of the open
text,
fingers
tracing Elven
letters
as if embracing old friends.

It will not
be easy,
now,
to write in that fair language.

I close my eyes against
the sight
of graceless letters
sprawled
helplessly upon fine
parchment.

Wordless,
I retrieve the fallen pen,
staunch the ink-spill
spreading over the laden desk.

there are tears
upon
your face.

Come now.

It will be all right.

I straighten the circlet
that rests upon your brow,
hide
your ruined hand
in mine. 

Remember, now,
remember
to smile.

Think:  is it not
good
to be alive?

We step forward
into
the harshness of the light,
the assault of sound.

They can not see
that I
pull
you along
beside me.

Much
the same as
the ending of
that other Road,
the one we walk today.

only a fortnight ago….

this time, I do not
bear
your body.

This time,
I hold desperately to
what remains
of a soul.

This day….

this day
of honour,
of sunlight,
of tales and feasting
beneath a  fair sky….

this day
is the most bitter
I have ever known.
 
I promised
I would not leave
you
until your road
was done.

I promise you still.