Home from battles across the sea

the old warrior stands silent on the sand

watching the fiery sun slowly sink

into the orange depths of Neptune’s command.

Weary of the futility and blood-lust of war

he seeks peace, solitude and salvation,

while the thundering waves fail to drown

the deafening roar of death and desperation.

A gore-stained sword lies at his feet screaming

his involvement in the ordered slaughter;

leather boots, scarred like his body and soul,

remain forever unclean in the foaming water.

He rails at the gods, his fists raised to the sky,

damning them for their nonchalance,

their failure to protect, while begging them

for answers, for an understanding response.

She watches from a distance, filled with his pain,

yearning to give the solace he desperately needs.

Her arms long to bind his hurt, her lips to ease

his aches, her love to erase his haunting deeds.

To Minerva she prays for wisdom to save him,

to Venus she prays for passion’s cleansing flame,

to Vestal she prays for the comfort and safety of home

and to Juno she begs for healing, his soul to reclaim.

As the stars fill the firmament, and the fishermen return,

the old warrior turns homeward, exhausted and spent.

To her open arms, at last, he is restored.

They face the Fates together, weary, but content.