The pull of centuries draws me to the distant past
From which I perceive, darkly, the shape of the world.
How do I return to the far lands from which my birth
Has been estranged? I must seek a hero, or become one.
No Cormac or George cries out my name, not in my line.
Nor does Eric or his son paint red my ship for the dawn.
This Norman crew which accompanies me tolerates
But does not embrace my mission, my need to return.
But why should they? When your life is accompanied by
Boredom of the patient stalker, interrupted by the noise
Of intermittent chases, then any direction but forward
is intolerable delay for the next diversionary battle.
Yet, my axe is wielded for finer cuts than lopping off limbs
And cleaving heads. It must find purpose in shaping the prow
And releasing the guiding spirit who will safely see us
Through perilous seas and unwelcome harbors, intact and alive.
Only this artistry of creation allows me to endure the torment
Of destruction my fellow travelers wreak along the way.
Yet my subtle goals do betray the innocent to a sacrifice
My reason tells me is unneeded and shameful.
Still, my time draws near, the baleful eye itches to open
And find foes to sweep from this land in fiery gaze,
Without distinction 'tween guilt of self or sin inherited
From Forefathers too distant to enumerate; simply to eradicate.
Only then shall I be allowed reentry to a life blameless in itself,
Despite the ruin to other quarters. For when a prophecy is made,
It's fulfillment carries guilt for only those who gladly expend
Every waking hour to merciless denouement; stumbling is excused.
