The Arrow, an autobiography

The Arrow, an autobiography

By, Kaushik Paul


They say, “Every arrow bears
The name of its target.”
My story is about my search,
For a touch that I could never forget...

Head of obsidian,
Shaft of maple.
Fletched and notched.
Born on the craftsman’s table.

My maker’s hands
Were old yet supple.
Their touch, so warm and cozy,
The feeling was ineffable.

He handed me into the harsh hands
Of a merchant, for a penny.
My old fletcher looked sad.
Was it because he was parting from me?

The merchant was happy.
Myself, to a fort did he bring.
In the arsenal, a knight said,
“We need more for the king.”

The knight had a hand
Made of steel.
It was hard, rigid,
Seasoned to kill.

He took me up and gazed deeply
In his eyes there was a spark.
Then he put me upside down,
Into a quiver dark.

Where I waited long
For the moment right.
Until a blue-eyed mask-man came
Underneath a shadowy night.

Some called him traitor,
Some called him patriot.
To slay the tyrant,
He climbed the walls of the fort.

From the heights of the watchtower,
His approach, I saw.
While being pulled out of quiver,
By a hand as cold as death’s claw.

My notch pressed against
The elite archer’s bowstring.
One push, and through the air I sang,
As I went gliding.

An old feeling tingled me,
As I tore the mask-man’s heart asunder.
Just like the hand of my maker,
His heart was warm and tender.

The body was dumped in the nearby woods,
Mangled in his chest, I still stay.
I know now, it is very true,
When they say...
“Every arrow bears the name of its target.”

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