He slides his booted step to the side his heart skips its beating. Like a bird lying lame on wet winter's hour of dawn. Like no approach he comes, like a tongue withdrawn. No sense, no truth, no armour's song was his, a mission of mercy, with no wrong? Stepping up his pace toward home. Up overcoming the top of the hill, the newest light is mounting to correct the marks through shadows cast left for yet others, still to last, while rising up from beyond, it leaves behind the battle cries and plenty of flesh and bone in sand, to dry where there his brothers lie.