The trees do not betray,
though the paths between them diverge,
and the way is lost.
The Fortunate Few
The fortunate few are as cursed
by fortune or ill fate; the view
hinged upon which side of the gate
one stands in the mired stain.
What tears at our souls
comes not from the outer dark,
nor from flames below;
but borne on black wings
of desires from within
Golden mountain peaks,
frost hoary valleys;
bones of the ancients
crumble under time,
it’s eternal weight.
All soldiers sacrificed to the gods of war.
Warriors gather your arms,
Embrace the women’s fair charms,
Kiss away their alarms—no lament
Leave hearth home intent for harms!