The muscles in my arm strain,
I pull another arrow,
Out of this quiver of hard work,
I look up at the face of my foe,
My guide, my burden,
I wipe the fruit of work out of my eyes,
I fit this messanger of death,
I pull back the string,
My arm straining with the weight,
Of what i must do,
I glance at my arm,
I see not mine,
But that of the reaper,
Clutching the string of anothers life,
We are but puppets in his game.
I release my clutching fingers,
Death's justice speeds straight and true,
Its been five years since i slew that man,
They told me after,
His son and wife had made him tea,
Expecting him home,
And all they got was the letter,
Telling them his tea was to be cold.
Five years hence I retire from the archers,
I cant fit arrow to bow,
Without seeing the tears of hatred,
My foolishness had caused.
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