Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

To feel the air.

There are words which I have lived by. Words which have offered encouragement and vision, words which I had never understood, yet always knew the meaning. For I have fought carelessly, and sought out blood when it was but a warm liquid which should only surge more from another than myself upon the ground.

There are so many words to hear, to live by and to know as truth undeniable and unchanging, as solid as rock beneath the feet, and as fragile and delicate as a dried leaf within the hands. All things must be held in a delicate grip as a sword. Tight enough to hold, soft enough to be wielded in response to what may come.

Boy, I have looked upon you from your first scream when feeling the cold air upon your naked body. I have held you against my chest so you might again be warm, and seen your fleeting glimpse meet my gaze upon you before you closed your eyes to dream again.

So this, I echo to you as once I heard so long ago from one who undoubtedly saw the same moments in me.

When you feel and hear the breath of life upon your skin, one which comes from your own flesh. A breath for which you have fought and laboured, one which you have hoped and dreamed upon, one which you spent so many weeks and months dreaming of a name for its owner, then you will know what it is to have something worth dying for.

Should I live to feel and hear the breath of your flesh, my boy, I will hold him as I did you, and pray that our breaths stop in the order they started.

Never take your hand from your sword, or assume a white flag to be anything of value. For in peace, wars wage in stories. And kings are made from paupers in the telling thereof.

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