If, amongst the grey clouds lingering like spirits on this battlefield
You hear me call your name and raise my hand to you,
Pick up your shield but come not near expecting welcome.
in the sodden earth turned the colour of rust
you see my corpse
do not bend
But face about
and raise your own blade
to the forensic turmoil of your recall;
stand amongst the battle-scarred and with them bid the gods explain their whims;
that being done, tell the gods I fought but was found wanting -
not for them
but for you.
If, in the metallic stench of this battle's aftermath,
I see you as an enemy and raise my blade to you -
Cry out my name, but come not close expecting I will hear.
beneath these sodden clouds turned the pallor of cold dead skin
you see me stand and weep
come not near
but in silence move as if invisible;
and should you find sanctuary
then to your knees with open eyes
pray you to the old Gods
that I may remember friends, and may remember
reasons good and true and stout enough to battle for.