The Arrow

A spoken arrow found its mark,
Piercing deep the soldier's heart.
Poisoned, sharp the iron tip,
Callous, cold the archer's lip.

The bowman, not foe but friend,
Else I could have born the arrow's end.
Not mere friend, yea even more,
Were they who bow and quiver bore!

More to me than kindred, country, name!
Far exceeding riches, honor, fame!
These would I gladly, speedily forsake,
If only archer's heart, I could gently take!

It would I cherish and daily behold,
Both now when I'm young, and when I am old.
It would I cover from storm and fear,
Loving it, honoring it, year after year.

"Fair archer, here is my heart as well!
For long I have waited, it I did not sell.
Here in my hands it beats passionate, true,
Please take it, as my humble gift to you?"

But not enough was this to archer fair:
"My heart's my own, and it I will not share!"
"As for yours, it is not my concern,"
"Keep it! and for mine do never yearn!"

And so sped the arrow, fast and true,
Striking soldier's heart, cutting it in two.