A better man might be happy fishing 
a peaceful corner 
of a forgotten lake whistling the tune 
the trout love, 
but I don’t want a world already saved. 
I’d rather brush 
the scabbard of my scimitar and drink 
in the emblem 
of our army’s crest on my brother’s arm. 
I’d rather be 
charged by the gods to perform labors, 
and before each,
to press my ear to the dirt and in the distant 
bowels of the earth 
hear a low whistling that only I could hear.