The years have passed now,

Lyca’s a little older.

The city’s bigger than that little village that controlled her.

Faster she ran, on streets cold and stark,

No village lanes, etched in memory's dark.

Coursing through the cafes, shops and madness of the night.

Her independence worth more,

For that she would fight.

Press her feet to the ground by the bridge that sped by all its passengers mid call.

As she looked over the edge, she could stand, or she could fall.

How much further was it to the ground?

Would it feel like floating,

Gazing below, a choice stark and bare,

To stand in the storm, or fall to the air.

Or would that landing make a sound?

That wind it blows her hair through the streets of New York City.

Lyca’s father was an angry man and forced her to carry his bags.

He said he loved her like the blowing sands across the desert.

Before she opened that door he asked;

“Are you sure you want to die by that sword?”

She replied;

“I am the sword”

Lyca could bear his crooked ways no further.

She ran to where he could not hurt her.

His legacy, built on the backs of the weak,

A love for the nation, and its soil,

Ghosts penned his story, in blood-stained disguise,

No prologue of pain, in truth's honest eyes.

But that prologue is written in blood.

Collaboration between Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk