Sun in the Palms of the Redeemer

Half-a-decade in service, 
the pawn returns home.
Detained far offshore
in his thought somewhat, 
and amongst a wreckage
of blood and bones
that linger on the floor.
Beside his bed now
is a chair facing the window
where a witness of the daylight 
sat and witnessed the passage of time.

And there is much to see
as winter comes:
his books kept on the window till dusk,
much of them showing their use and age,
with darkening of the page
or creases on the spine seen from outside.
Seeing then, shade disappear 
as leaves shed, making the onslaught 
of light longer, broader, and clear.

It is perhaps better for the limbs:
which would heal
under the Sun, after being deprived 
of the warmth of blood.
And soon I’d need to compensate 
for the disarray of furniture, and piling dust
that becomes airborne with each
trembling step that I impend on the floor.

A woman keeps me company, 
comes by before heading home
late at night.
She’d first come upon seeing me
struggle through the door,
helped me settle, freed the desk
to make place for tea she'd kept.
I know 
the cost of what she endows
upon my blighted soul,
and upon my wounds that prey 
on neighbouring, healthy flesh.

I know of the place where
sympathy is sold:
my men had ransacked the shop
in the course of the war,
and yet ran out somehow.
I heard the sound of uprooting homes,
the uprising smoke would inflict my throat.
A child then latched onto my shirt,
shouted, and cried—
no words would come.
He asked perhaps for a word
for the symptoms he saw all around,
or the reason of departure 
of the shade that carried him around.
Not a word—not a word of my own,
all my seams were torn, 
and all bruises started to ache at once,
along with burns that burnt—
this was when I was sent back home.

A woman kept me company,
came by before heading home,
late at night.
I’ve conceived of the village,
and the path she takes.
It is only up north that I see
annexes and abates wrought 
upon the face in ways
that compensate for shearing cold
of winds and snow.

The path to the village
is one I too have walked.
There wasn’t a shore to bank upon
so we marched, free of any deceitful 
facade, since no walls guarded this Troy.
This was where I beheaded god:
in the temple of an evergreen valley;
no force could hold the unleashed barrage.

I woke up again, the sun was setting,
my books stacked upon the window’s edge,
held in the palm of a silhouette 
standing with his arms spread
upon the hill of Corcovado.
In the other hand but nothing: 
a glimmer of death
as the sun came to set.

She never came again,
perhaps her goodwill 
like ours, along the drive to endow
had fulfilled its course;
or she recognised my face
as I did hers, but hesitated to say.
I imagined her face again,
all the annexes and abates 
now enwrought with tears and disdain.