By Jing Villamil

 

Three years ago, this poem I wrote, only for my knight. Now, as events unfold, it seems we shall have to take it out of the “baul”, shake it free of the dust it had gathered. We shall read it again. For my knight. And for the other, honed from His same mould.

The mind whisperer in me asks: what chapter will this be then? It does not begin the book, nor it is its end. The words speak the thoughts, but more hides behind:

And so it came to pass, amid the overwhelming dark, the knight took on the bow, the arrows, the shield, the sword. All were too heavy, all were too cold. The knight staggered, then steadied on will-weighted feet.

I pleaded: the dragons are out. The beasts and beasties roar loud. They will not be kind. They would shred you to pieces, then gulp down what is warm, and good, and best in you.

The knight hushed shut my fears: “There is no other knight left.”

I hushed. I signed her a blessing, then clamped shut my lips. The knight rushed past, fast into the night. I hugged the shivers gone. And stilled forever the whispers in my heart.

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