04-07-2016, 06:49 PM
TWILIGHT
1
The hero's journey
cannot end in triumph. Death
is not the abyss, it is
the return, the final descent
down the mountain. To the living,
only the boon is truly known,
the summit behind the hero
reeking of corpses.
2
The war came when he was a child,
and afterwards, he joined his generation
in telling tales only of this glorious past,
choosing for himself a mundane path. He became
an officer of the law -- a guardian,
perhaps, or the dragon
holding the goddess captive. He found my grandmother
at an investigation in the provinces,
falling in love
first with her cooking,
then with her quiet rural manner.
3
Now the silence haunts him.
He sits by the door of their house
and dials up a channel
on his battery-powered radio,
a gift from his three daughters.
Before my grandmother's sickness, it would be
the news -- now that she lies on the couch,
a bag of vomit nearly spilling out beside her,
he prefers the worship channel.
But even this must end. My mother,
busy accounting for pensions,
complains about the noise.
4
Siegfried returned to the world of men
with the Tarnhelm before his death.
And as the flames of his funeral pyre
rose to the heavens, the world of the gods
burned down -- the hearts of men
were purified. That is the real boon,
the power to transform.
If my grandfather is to offer us
anything more than his life,
he must die like a dog.
1
The hero's journey
cannot end in triumph. Death
is not the abyss, it is
the return, the final descent
down the mountain. To the living,
only the boon is truly known,
the summit behind the hero
reeking of corpses.
2
The war came when he was a child,
and afterwards, he joined his generation
in telling tales only of this glorious past,
choosing for himself a mundane path. He became
an officer of the law -- a guardian,
perhaps, or the dragon
holding the goddess captive. He found my grandmother
at an investigation in the provinces,
falling in love
first with her cooking,
then with her quiet rural manner.
3
Now the silence haunts him.
He sits by the door of their house
and dials up a channel
on his battery-powered radio,
a gift from his three daughters.
Before my grandmother's sickness, it would be
the news -- now that she lies on the couch,
a bag of vomit nearly spilling out beside her,
he prefers the worship channel.
But even this must end. My mother,
busy accounting for pensions,
complains about the noise.
4
Siegfried returned to the world of men
with the Tarnhelm before his death.
And as the flames of his funeral pyre
rose to the heavens, the world of the gods
burned down -- the hearts of men
were purified. That is the real boon,
the power to transform.
If my grandfather is to offer us
anything more than his life,
he must die like a dog.