I am silent, But I hear,
Back beyond the bend,
Which way the wind blows,
The direction waterways blow,
Erratic, I stand, skin panicked,
Against the heat, it's strange,
Long before it's started that sting, Of tears dripping,
Ink Staining the page,
But with no liquid left to stain,
It's left just smoke,
Every sign of stress,
It's left behind standing in the heat, evaporated before the page,
Like I'm some sort of Emperor great, without a word to say.
They know him all, by the flutter of the coat,
But I am a man with no feast to eat, No men to feed,
And no army to hold,
And every sign of stress evaporates like heat in the cold,
But not I, I am not the kind of man you recognize on the battlefield by his coat,
I am the kind of man you recognize on the battlefield because silently he holds his greatest men at bay,
but they boil and steam to get out in the cold violences and crevices that are always tempt his sway,
And because of this he oft' refuse his right to aim in any sort of warfare game.