To, An Old Protector.

You were strong. Stronger

Than three big men and a hammer,

A hammer you broke with your fortitude.

As my comrades and I struck again,

Blow by blow, your armour dented.

But your will held stubborn, firm.

My Kashmiri neighbour stopped hammering.

Took a deep breath, muttered expletives,

And commented that a will like yours

Could rid his region of her woes.

But that's just his Kashmiriness talking.

I'd rather you sat at Arthur's round table,

Going on missions to save fair maidens,

Or to slay dragons, evil sorcerers,

And National Debt.

Vipin, on my right, also a romantic,

On asking, said that he wished

He had a storeroom large enough

To hold everything he'd ever loved

And have you keep them in,

To never let them go.

The corridor light is out.

Tired, in the dark, I stare

At my open door, and you

Lying at my feet, noble; broken.

Lighting a hard-earned cigarette,

I muse over the naivety

Of my neighbour's thought:

Locks aren't for keeping things in,

They're for keeping them out.