The archer
I met an archer someday. He was walking with a quiver on his back, a quiver without arrows and a bow without a string. He had cracks, nay, rifts on his feet, the product of years of valour and bravery, of slips and mishaps. His voice was like the rasp of a machete against the file, rough, hoarse and lost. He was a man who basked in the glory of his past and existed on the denial of his present. He was a man stuck in his heydays, a man who refused to move on from those moments of grandeur and fervour; the days when he hunted them all, the eagles and the guinea fowls. He was a man who refused to acknowledge that the sun did set and time ran away from him. The look in his eyes I still remember, long and deeply etched in a past gone and forgotten. His hand were calloused, skin hard and rigid. He was a hunter then, an archer that shot them down, but now then he was just an archer, an archer with broken arrows. I met an archer, a hero in his own eyes. He sang his own song and danced to his own tunes. He was a lonely man, a figure of the shadows, neglected by light and disowned by the night. The archer was a man of lost wisdom and displaced wit, a man of means but now without one. He once was a man of valour and style but now, the deer did not scamper, for she knew there was nothing to fear, the bird did not fly away, went about tweeting her song, for the quiver on his back was full of broken arrows. All the archer had when I met him was words, heavy and weighty words but the flames of living them had long gone out. When I saw the archer, I saw a disoriented being, a horse broken by time and tide, a man forgotten by all but him. My heart broke when a tear rolled down his cheeks. My heart crashed when his feeble hands clutched at my arms. My heart collapsed when he pointed to his mouth and begged for some meat. The archer killed me; the archer with broken arrows killed me, when he let me see his scars, not only those on his hands and face, but also those in his heart and mind. The archer murdered me, when he let me see his prosthetics, not the actual loss of limb, but the loss of heart and a sense of self. The archer massacred me, when he let me see his shadow, torn in difference places, trying to hang back as much as it could. When I met the archer, I knew that I had met a kindred spirit, a people who were victims of time, mauled by the dark of our younger days and eaten away by our future years. I turned to him that day, to show him the stripes that life had planted on my back and he fumbled to see, but he could not. Alas, the archer was blind.
I met an archer someday. He was walking with a quiver on his back, a quiver without arrows and a bow without a string. He had cracks, nay, rifts on his feet, the product of years of valour and bravery, of slips and mishaps. His voice was like the rasp of a machete against the file, rough, hoarse and lost. He was a man who basked in the glory of his past and existed on the denial of his present. He was a man stuck in his heydays, a man who refused to move on from those moments of grandeur and fervour; the days when he hunted them all, the eagles and the guinea fowls. He was a man who refused to acknowledge that the sun did set and time ran away from him. The look in his eyes I still remember, long and deeply etched in a past gone and forgotten. His hand were calloused, skin hard and rigid. He was a hunter then, an archer that shot them down, but now then he was just an archer, an archer with broken arrows. I met an archer, a hero in his own eyes. He sang his own song and danced to his own tunes. He was a lonely man, a figure of the shadows, neglected by light and disowned by the night. The archer was a man of lost wisdom and displaced wit, a man of means but now without one. He once was a man of valour and style but now, the deer did not scamper, for she knew there was nothing to fear, the bird did not fly away, went about tweeting her song, for the quiver on his back was full of broken arrows. All the archer had when I met him was words, heavy and weighty words but the flames of living them had long gone out. When I saw the archer, I saw a disoriented being, a horse broken by time and tide, a man forgotten by all but him. My heart broke when a tear rolled down his cheeks. My heart crashed when his feeble hands clutched at my arms. My heart collapsed when he pointed to his mouth and begged for some meat. The archer killed me; the archer with broken arrows killed me, when he let me see his scars, not only those on his hands and face, but also those in his heart and mind. The archer murdered me, when he let me see his prosthetics, not the actual loss of limb, but the loss of heart and a sense of self. The archer massacred me, when he let me see his shadow, torn in difference places, trying to hang back as much as it could. When I met the archer, I knew that I had met a kindred spirit, a people who were victims of time, mauled by the dark of our younger days and eaten away by our future years. I turned to him that day, to show him the stripes that life had planted on my back and he fumbled to see, but he could not. Alas, the archer was blind.
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