I will have peace someday. A piece of land. A house. A book-store. A tavern. A place where people can come at the end of a hard day, and nurse a drink; read a book.
There will be a woman to go home to. Maybe a daughter too. Or a son.
There will be someone to hold while I sleep. And someone to wake up with. There will be peace. The tranquillity of water.
Till that day – if it ever comes – I have to continue leading mad cavalry charge after charge against the worst odds. I shall keep on with the cut. And the thrust. And the feint. And the dodge.
I shall live from trench to trench – with my rusty shield and chipped sword. And I shall feast on the rats.
I will kill. And I shall bleed. And I will hide dry eyes which can shed water no more.
And for the footprint that I shall leave behind – I will dream of my house by the sea. Where a cottage feels like a castle, for the attention shown to me.
I will deny the reality of a few dusty bones marked by unmarked stones. I will live. I must.
Give me the strength to be Atticus Finch. Give me the strength to be Balian of Ibelin.