A wonderful swordfighter died finally. Pascifist by birth. Started late. Became great. Fought for everything, fought for everyone. Fought for life. Was loved, and he killed only in necessity, and with great pain and many wounds to his soul. He could win with no blood running, and no skin opened, no wounds grinning. Only amazement of opponents, and wonder of the gods. Anyhow, long story short. A weak person came against him with no mercy, no honor, no awareness. The most weak opponent punctured his clothing which was stained with the colors of life, woven with life. The fabric of life, the strength and simplicity of love. A fine cloth. The clouds and the sea are so proud and so free. Astounded with your patience. The swordsman died smiling. An artist with a paintbrush of sharpened steel. Admitted his pain and his weakness. The assassin listened. A small flute hung from his belt. The dying man spoke: “May I play it?” Yes. Assassin softened. Wondered and pondered many incongruities. Swordsman played slow and loud. Very obvious and serious. No one is unconquerable, no problem unsolved. The dying wind playing the song as the enemy falls in love with the life. The singing bringing no end. Only transference. The song ended. The swordsman yelled his un fathomable love so that it could travel the distance necessary to find the hearts of friends and lovers. The lady of his life so unfairly absent in his dying. The dessert wind graciously carried his voice, the music of his soul. Up with the clouds does it roll. A beautiful burial. Solemn, simple, respectful. Upon new awareness. Shame but strength all the same. Loneliness by the love absorbed. Focus, and more wandering to find the proper place to unfold the gift given by love now lifeless. A friend found by watching the spirit depart by his own hands. Everything amplified. He cried.