While the Arrow Flies by Himring  

While the Arrow Flies

There was no eagle—

only that feathered shaft in its flight

centuries delayed.

We are still on the Mountain,

although I never left the Ice.

Those who let loose Death among us

have tasted the flavour of our tears

and pronounced it wanting.

We have been dying too fast

to spend time reading the small print.

Ignore the contract.

It has become irrelevant;

there is no escape clause.

If there is to be mercy,

we must invent it,

before we freeze white in the dark,

before the mailed heel comes down,

before the arrow strikes.

Because this is all we have:

the arrow flying inexorably, slowly....

What might we save in the interval?

How might we love,

before it finally strikes home?