The Broken Sword

Men, whose span is cruelly short, rush nonetheless to death in their youth as to a maiden’s arms.

Over unforced love, the gods themselves had no might.

Better a life like a falling star, bright across the dark, than a deathlessness which can see naught above or beyond itself.

For a space he faltered, when Goltan fell with a spear through him. “Now I am one friend poorer,” he said, “and that is a wealth not gained back.”

“I think you look on death as your friend,” she murmured. “That is a strange friend for a young man to have.”

“The only faithful friend in this world,” he said. “Death is always sure to be at your side.”

Hurry and hurry, autumn leaves hurrying on the rainy wind, snow hurrying out of the sky, life hurrying to death, gods hurrying to oblivion.