This Voice, This Arm, This Heart

This voice, after speaking
loudly and long, unhinging
silence and throwing it aside

This voice, that shook the
trees with its sound and
force in its time

Has now reduced to a rasp,
a pitiful whisper of the
desert survivor with
blood dried in rusty
circles below his
nostrils, and skin
so burnt it will never
again regain its
pallor and the
hollow look of
wandering saints
in his eyes if that
can be called wisdom.

This arm, after swinging
the heaviest of hammers
upon the stone and breaking
it by the ton

This arm, whose prowess
laid in the roadbed and
guided the team of horses
across the wilds

Who stretched these thin
and winding ribbons further
outward, remaking the
horizon for those who
lacked the will of their
own, and who were timid
of this crushing burden,
and the stinging of
sweat rolling ever into
their eyes, and the
blinding sun at the
declivity between sky
and earth, whose very
point was ever his destination
until it turned into sea
for he was no sailor
but a landsman, the
waves with their
momentary gold
none of his concern.

This arm, upon whose
force has moved
generations of people

Is now weathered and
robbed of its power
and it shakes when
his hand grasps a
drinking cup and
brings it to sick and
purple lips in the
slow and pungent
afternoon, this
deathbed that
stifles the sounds
of children playing
outside and renders
their laughter hollow
and the quiet house
rings with a constant
echo of things past

But in amongst the
great deeds and glory
of this one who was
once mighty on the earth
is the aching salt of
those things sacrificed
and forgone, and no
less acidic for their
mundane scope

For if he can remember
the hard, slick, solid
haft of the hammer
against his palm
in better detail than
the tiny hand of his
baby daughter, if
he can remember
impersonal accolades
better than the
soft whisper of
his loved ones on
a holiday morning,
if he can have a
plaque dedicated to
his service in the
public square, but
lay here dying all
alone...

This heart, once having
beat as true and deep
as any marching drum,
loses its rhythm and
grows ragged, nearing
the end, regretful as
we all must be, frail
as anyone, his hour
upon the stage full
expired, and no less
left unfinished than
we timid folk who
have not striven for
such great heights.