The poet warrior

I raise my sword halfway.

I know that I do not want to fight wholeheartedly but I also do not want to back off.

All these days, I had been brandishing the sword for the spectators in the arena. But now, I want to hold the weapon for the heart’s desire.

Sadly, it has fallen in love with the opponent – An opponent like no other.

It is going to be an interesting dual. A dual in which every time our swords meet, my blood is going to be shed.

But I do not mind. For I know that every drop of my blood would transform itself into a beautiful poem.

I reminisce about the dual I had lost in the past. It had left me lying in a huge pool of blood. A pool that had dried and dried before blossoming into a garden of poems. Passers-by had lauded the garden but no one had cared about the mortally injured warrior.

I raise my sword halfway.

I march ahead to be wounded. I expect the pool of blood to be bigger.

I realize that everyone will care only about the garden but if not for the dual, if not for the losing warrior, how would the poet win?

But perhaps once, just once, I would like to see the warrior win. 

No bloodshed, no poems but just a simple, silent victory. A victory where he embraces the conquered opponent and puts down his sword. A victory where the warrior is finally acknowledged.

Once, just once, I would like to see the warrior win.

How much more should the poor guy suffer?!