Lament of the Bow

Wide-set eyes framed with white
Widen no longer.
Black streaks tear the face,
And even the mighty falls.

The streets of Ashkelon are
Shallowed by silence,
Cut off from the dance of
Laughing daughters.

Only the rain doesn’t fall
Only the dew can despise,
And shields are no longer met
With the fragrance of oil.

The blood and flesh and bow
Have nowhere to return,
The sword has been satisfied
Though the warrior remains.

The scarlet and gold weep
For what will never stand again,
And all that’s been given
Will never be withdrawn.

How the mighty fall!
How even the closest of chains
Break, and wonder-
Full is gone.

How the mighty fall!—
And war wastes away, until white is framed by black.

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