when i first got word of his death,
my heart momentarily pained..
i searched myself for an emotion
but my soul was drenched in emptiness..
and my eyes dried up
i yearned for strength but that was not what i required at the time.
i refused to be strong in the face of sorrow
i found no comfort in modesty... nay meekness
and malice beckoned.
i was not happy still, for in rejoicing in another's death meant malevolence
and yet i did not hate
yes.
i had no capacity to hate the dead.
and this story i tell had a twist.
maybe the evil could wage a fair war this time.
and winning depended solely on me, the puppet master of my own emotions.
the story, i say again, had a twist.
for this man knew not of his death.
he went through life with a spring in his step.
maybe he found happiness in his semi-life.
this poor soul i had killed in my head.
his death was not at all heroic.
both in life and the beginning of the end he was a coward.
yes, this war was a secret only i knew.
but i made his death public.
And the burial i would not attend.
''let the dead bury their own dead''..
By Kui Kubai
