The evening stars, appearing in their landless throes,
Shone bright as his milk-white corpse
Approached the sandy shore.
A dead man came and greeted him,
Taking the boy’s dead form into his arms.
There had been a deep shudder in the world,
Inwards, as and unlike the Mother’s passing’s wake.
Weeping, the boy’s brother, once slain during the
Day’s greusome battling, and now returned to life,
Took his kin into his arms and brushed back his raven hair.
“Poor brother,” he cried, wishing to tear out his hair,
But too forlorn to let go of the cold, wet corspe to do it,
“You have brought us all back, you have saved.
And I have lost. For all that I have gained, I nearly say
It it not worth my life for yours. I nearly say,
It is not worth all the lives of all the dead of all the worlds!”
The wild-haired boy felt a cold hand on his shoulder.
Turning, he found the since-revived haz Knight behind him,
Grave, and seeming heartless, the living man said,
“Hush, O friend. Your brother has done what was called for.
She could not go unmourned, and now, she has not.”
“But then!” exclaimed the youth. “Please, no,
Deny me to hear that she is still dead!”
“Indeed, she is not. She has not passed unmourned,
For she is alive once more, as are all the others on the
Blood-drenched battle feild. You weep.
Indeed, it is travesty that your poor brother’s life
Need be lost in the turning shuttle of Fate,
As she weaves her soft, dark strands into the world of men.
But, fear not, his life was all for good,
And his death was not for nothing, neither.
Never a more valiant soul didst pass the Gates of Heaven.
Good Yaksha, you lips are virgin to Death’s kiss.”
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