You should have died in battle, died a hero
just like the warrior kings of ancient myth.
Instead, you languish there among barbarians,
cursed to live, cursed to breathe, and to remember
your cowardice, your sins, your people’s cries.
You led them like a flock of lambs, then let
the wolves devour their flesh and drink their blood
or scatter them across the hostile earth.
Long months have passed. You hear their voices drift
upon the wind—you hear them in the fields
and in the streets—familiar words and songs.
Were they reborn as refugees like you,
or are they ghosts? It doesn’t matter, none
of them will ever come to haunt your steps,
they won’t pay homage to a dying king.
May loneliness’s pain be your relief.
D.A. Cooper is a husband and father. He lives in Houston, Texas where he teaches political science and the Italian language at a local community college. His poetry has previously appeared in Irreantum and Bristlecone Firesides.
