The drums of war are quiet and forgotten
the torches, long burnout produces swhirls of ashes
Sand and dirt cover the ancient pathways
and I grow grim watching each sunset and sun rising.

My horse is unease and anxious
althought, I don’t think it can carry me anymore to action
the hilt of my sword is slippery from the rotten leather
it’s edge, corrosive red, won’t cut throught a hard skin nor a tender
Where is the war we were promised?
My heart causes tremors from it’s restless beat
What kind of enemy is this, that passes undetected in front of my fine dogs nostrils?
When will I get the order for my sword to be unleashed?
Weren’t the training days already over?
am I not prepared to fullfill the deed?
How many days shall I wait in slumber?
or I am not the rightful opponent for that formidable enemy?