Beauty in Pain

Walking a little bit faster, panting, the blur made by the trees as I pass, the dying cries of those lords stabbed and left under the trees , the steel-meeting-steel sound I hear from the far border of the forest-made by the swords of the border guards I made to fight each other, the chill of the morning pacing up and down my face, leaves reddened years ago by my own blood... everything has its own beauty. Since there is beauty in pain as well as death, life has already started making sense again, red sense of blood... a sense I’ve been awaiting to feel for years.