The Last Portrait of My Heart

If I were to meet my gods this day,
If I were to face the cruel of gods this day;

As the wick of the lamp of my life burns closer inch by inch to its end,
Before my blood gets cold,
I bind the grace of all gods,
That I may whistle the last song in my heart,
In sight of gods and men,
As stars look down in witness,
That the dead shall dance here tonight.

May the soft hearts of men weep for me when I depart,
May they sing the songs of my sacrifices; the songs of heroes.

My heart shelters the story that is me,
And this day, I shall paint the last portrait of my heart,
For the great lands to admire.

During the museum of my years,
My eyes have been poisoned,
I have seen the innocent suffer,
My tongue has been laced,
And spoken not against the dirt of men,
My nails have been trimmed short,
And my fingers cannot paw upon the walls and scale the heights of greatness.

If the moon of my life shone no more,
Let these words be the nectar of the gods and as libation I pour before the mother of mountains,

There is a sword in the darkness,
There is a shield that guards the realm of men,
There is a watcher on the walls, for this night and all nights to come.

Less I be…the sword, the shield and the watcher I too be,
For this is the portrait of my heart I paint.

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