Solitude
To whoever was and is the light of my life, my friends
Miles doesn't want to be seen, because eyes on a lost man can only speak of pity;
he does not need pity from anyone, not after a river of years spent training, learning,
that pain is much more than a habit. It's a way of life.
Refusing it, even more so.
It takes too long, too much to get used to it – he can't lose all his efforts to a single face,
a face he wishes he didn't know, which makes it so much harder to push it all back.
It hits harsher than usual – it digs in his soul like claws on flesh,
and he still has to keep a straight face for the world.
It is his war. He won't surrender now.
He never rests, not even when it is all over,
when his life is falling apart around him, a castle of murders and lies, step after step;
he walks himself to death, on a path that is crumbling.
He keeps playing his old game of silence,
a destiny that was traced for him from the start.
His ears open up late – not too late, his fate decrees –
he only understands when the gavel falls,
when he sees him smiling,
and he knows he is saved.