A gust of wind will one day sweep past,
Wiping away all the man's tracks.

Nearly every footprint,
Was stamped full of the fury that filled him.

That humble youth,
Faded away with the flames into yesterday.

The first ray of light to pierce the long night,
Was brought by the burning man.

But the body that bore the weight of the world,
Was forged by the fires of wrath.

Rage is a crafty emotion,
It changes its face,
Concealing itself within the man's life.

His friend fought blood-soaked battles,
So their people would need fight no longer.

But every victory in battle h gained,
Left him neither satisfied nor proud,
Only with the indifference of emptiness.

“You must be careful.
Duty does not drive you to wield you blade, but hate.”^[1]

His teacher kindly reminded him thus,

“And behind that hatred, You seem to… desire the destruction of the self.”

But what about his joy?
Was that too merely a phony disguise?
He who once laughed amidst the crowd,
Day after day, as though it were second nature?

No. Even though he knew not the meaning of “love,”
That happy past was not a lie someone wove.

But now,
Even those memories have melted into fury…
His hatred is such,
That he cannot hold onto what he cherishes,
Though all is precious to him.

Fueled with lone courage,
He attempted to resist fate,
But the burning sun that shines upon all creatures,
Once fallen,
Will incinerate the land, becoming golden death.