THE END OF THE TRAVEL

All warriors, who cannot find but peace,
often after death walk in silence
where their foe never walks more,
to stand on a blazing coast or cloud.

Still the empty fist clenches to ache,
ill for that weapon that ripped days,
but in this silver mist there is no-one's gaze
and to walk is like a mountain, disturbed and awake.

All slain warriors who awake to find
a life to be lived more, beauty-torn and laced,
to adore, painfully, the morning sun, slowly,
and all the courage gather to endure its embrace.

All the ones who lived and ceased to speak their lives,
the final road folds them back into an everlasting pass.