A Happy End

Oh, that your lovely flesh be there for me a thousand miles I must, on blood-stained boots hike through the corpses of man's hate for man and carry only one, an ever-longing thought. A bullet on a mission with the sound of scorn and weaving on its path of wild destruction flies by me, humming like a goddamn bumblebee I'm telling blistered feet to be my friends. What if, I say with hollow trepidation another man, yet from another land has claimed the prize before I stagger home, it will not leave me and becomes its own obsession. And then, a nightingale, sits on the knotted branch of a tall tree that shows the ravages of war, and sings the sweetest song that Nature could conceive she sings for me and tells about my distant love. It is enough to hear the sounds of this fine music new powers penetrate my worn exhausted bones, time is suspended altogether like a dream and on the steps up to her door I weakly stumble to catch the ambience of this thing called Happy End.