Bullet Of False Pride

Bullet Of False Pride
© Surazeus
2023 11 05

When ancient bard, last seen on misty heath 
singing tales of martial heroes, is seen 
busking with guitar on corners of streets 
in cities crowded with computer towers, 
our hearts are chilled by ancient memories 
seeping through mask of vain urbanity. 

Though he stands now by oiled telephone pole 
and sings of Fingal, king of mountain storms, 
while strumming rusty strings of worn guitar 
with crippled fingers of romantic faith, 
the ancient bard once haunted misty hills 
where skull of Ossian floats in windy cave. 

Face smeared with dirt from never taking showers, 
the ancient bard wraps tattered nylon jacket 
tight around shoulders gaunt from bitter wind 
that blows his leaf-fragile soul over field 
of rusty cars and broken frigerators 
past barbwire fence to torn tent where he sleeps. 

Through bleary eyes he watches freighter ships 
chug slowly past his tent in Spider Wood, 
and, while he drinks last drops of beer, explains 
to mannequin still wearing business suit 
that he signed up to fight the terrorists 
in stark rugged hills of Afghanistan. 

Gripping assault rifle close to his chest, 
young sergeant, born and raised in Arkansas, 
leaps from the humvee on bare mountain road 
and runs with unit to surround the house 
where evil Taliban commander lives, 
then kicks in the door and shoots at the ghost. 

Young girl in purple hijab gasps surprised 
when bullets of his righteous pride in truth 
pierces soul of her heart through fresh-baked bread 
so she falls back against the blood-smeared wall, 
and in her eyes he sees his long-sought bride 
who would have raised three children at his side. 

I would have preferred to marry that girl, 
to sit with her in garden of fig trees 
and play melodies on strings of the lute 
while she sings heart-enchanting psalms of love, 
then laugh with joy as we drink wine to kiss, 
but I killed her with bullet of false pride. 

The insurance salesman in gray business suit 
who hurries past to make another sale 
ignores the ancient bard with burning eyes 
who sings with aching heart of bitter loss 
about death of Malvina by the sea 
whose bloody hand caresses his chilled cheek.