The Will to Forgive
The smell of blood grew rancid in his nose,
As slowly he crawled from oblivion,
To dance with the pain of repeated blows,
And peer through a veil of vermilion.
The coarse cold and damp of the dark sidewalk,
Grated his face raw and shattered his sight.
Laughter and taunts were the only small talk,
As young toughs stole his soul without a fight.
Their dying laughter was the only sound,
And it thickened the chilly, stale night air.
He lifted his head from the bloody ground,
And saw his ruined face reflected there.
At first the red fire of his anger flared,
To exact his revenge, he tried to rise,
And the retribution his mind prepared,
Appeared, a movie behind his sad eyes.
But “an eye for an eye” was not his style,
And despite the attack, his life was spared.
He sat on the curb to rest for awhile,
And wondered if anyone really cared.
He noticed his shadow dance on the street,
And turning, he found a small fire nearby;
Where a fellow sang an old tune, so sweet,
The sound of his voice almost made him cry.
The Minstrel’s right hand touched his broken face,
And instantly took his raw pain away;
Then carried him through green fire to his place,
And sang the long night into golden day.
He woke to the brilliance of morning light,
Piercing the windows of his humble loft.
No pain remained from the previous night,
And never before was his bed so soft.
His torn, bloody clothes were washed and repaired.
His bruises and scrapes were just memories.
His heart sang with joy, that the Minstrel cared
Enough, to sing and tell healing stories.
His attackers, he completely forgave,
And he searched them out to offer his aid,
To free them from bitter chains, that enslave
Them in shadows greed and misery made.
He found in forgiveness the will to live.
He shared his new secret every day.
When his mentor saw the gifts he would give,
The Minstrel just smiled, and faded away.
Mick McKellar
August 2014
Not all heroes need a gun and a fast car.
Mick
