The Dream

He came to me in a dream last night,
My friend with whom I had fought.
He held my hand and wept over it,
Seeing my loss;
Not only of the finger
But of the thing that once I wore there.
On his fair face,
A look of pain and sorrow.

He spoke:
"Do not fear me, little one;
I come as a friend."
I answered:
"I am not afraid of you.
In truth, I have ever counted you a friend,
Even when evil came between."

He bowed his head;
I saw the tears fall like rain.
"I am sorry!
I did not understand, until too late!"
I reached out, touched his hand on mine;
"It is never too late
If you see clearly in the end."

Falling to his knees,
He knelt before me.
"Forgive me!" he cried.
I did not hesitate:
"I forgive you!  Let it be forgotten."
He was still for a moment, bowing at my side.
"Thank you," he sighed,
And kissed my hand.

He rose to go;
I wanted to stop him
But, as is the way with dreams,
I could not move.
At the door he turned,
On his fair face
The half-smile I remembered so well.
"Take care, little one."
Then he was gone.

I awoke,
My hand still wet from his tears--
Or were they my own?
Was it a dream?  I cannot say;
I know only this:
That we two met together,
Friends once again.

Who is more at peace now?
My friend -- or myself?

- Linaewen