on the certainty of survival with the expectations of failure

so many have fallen trying to scale the walls of her castle--or so it seems. blood, tears and sweat shed for what other than the simple achievement of success? no, for this battle, maybe for sworn allegiance to her kingdom? for simple recognition of some sovereignty in their own? could it even be that simple?

so many have fallen in wars, so it has been. so it is. so it must be. blood tears and sweat shed to scale castles of the world since the beginning when man took up the sword. and these soldiers leave behind their families, their first love, their temporary freedom, to fight for true freedom, true happiness. so many have died trying. their bodies long gone, memories soon forgotten. the question is, were this man's efforts ever recognised? is it even important if they are? after all, he failed to conquer that castle. and that is mostly what the peasants and the plebians would remember, that is if they even remember his name.

all for Helen. the height of her walls daunted many in the past but still they came in droves. they fell in droves. they came by the legions and they too fell by the legions. and the last came for her and he too bled blood and shed tears and sweat, and he too eventually fell in battle. and like Paris the fate of all future warmongers who live by the sword shall be slain by the sword.

the real winner must be the bard who never drew blood and thus whose own blood shall never be drawn. he is content with his song, his literature, his art, his solitude. he looks upon with envy at the warriors who enjoy fame, fortune, company and a place in history while he merely writes about it. his supporters pick up swords and fight for him, but he himself stands on the horizon behind the battlefield. his followers pull his wagon for him but the wagon never had wheels. even the king now offers him a sword and a shield to fight for his freedom but he brushes all of it aside and instead asks for the mirror, and to it the bard tells "without dreams, one can have no nightmares".

 ps 22 feb 2010 i think all that could await the bard's watchers and followers is only disappointment if what they are continuously waiting for is for him to pick up the iron; he is no warrior. and when they abandon him and helen stops watching and walks away, im willing to bet my hat that he as no qualm fading out to lonely black for all time carrying with him only his words that meant everything to him even though it was so, only to him.