Eyes of the drop of the tear

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On the field where steel once sang,
beneath a sky choked with smoke and sorrow,
a knight lay broken, face kissed by mud,
his halberd shattered, his banner torn.


From the painy drops of his eye,
a single tear clung -
not fallen, not free -
balanced on the edge of ruin.
That drop, a prisoner of pain,
held a voice only silence could hear.
It whispered to him not of glory,but of chains,

away in the hands of slaves  a princess dragged 
who bore no names -only whips and wounds.
Slaves in the grip of time;
Souls in an endless cycle.

The glories of land and knight she had sung once,
in fields where the sun lay down gently,
grew her seeds of love
her laughter soft as linen.
Now, her breath was stolen by foreign winds,
her crown replaced by rusted shackles.

The tear told him:
“If she crosses their border,
her soul will be bartered,
her beauty burned in their fires,
her name forgotten beneath their laws.”

It wept not from his grief,
but from hers.
It wept for the kiss he would never return,
the dream they could not finish.

Then, with one shiver of the wind,
it fell -
not to the soil,
but into memory.

Eyes of the drop
of the tear -a crystal echo of love,
left shining on the cheek of a dying knight,
while the sun watched from behind the smoke
and said nothing.

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