Mukti — Or, Liberation

A poem for my wife

Down the inching Aeons

‘Midst Samara’s recurrent course

I —

Donning Mars’ myriad emblems —

Marched the path of Force.

From many climes I hailed

And countless seas sailed:

Whether Norse,

Greek,

Roman,

Briton,

Son of Erin,

And many more besides

My armor under Phoebus’ rays glistening,

Sharpened steal vindictively tearing.

By sword I lived

By sword I died,

By my hand

Mothers, wives, and daughters

Cried,

’Twas my lance that pierced

The Galilean’s side.

Strength was my sole guide

Honor swelled my pride,

Poet and prophet alike

Did I deride.

But when came Death —

His prize to claim —

Each time I found

To my shame,