He came to me in a dream last night, My friend with whom I had fought. He held my hand and wept over it, Seeing my loss; Not only of the finger But of the thing that once I wore there. On his fair face, A look of pain and sorrow.
He spoke: "Do not fear me, little one; I come as a friend." I answered: "I am not afraid of you. In truth, I have ever counted you a friend, Even when evil came between."
He bowed his head; I saw the tears fall like rain. "I am sorry! I did not understand, until too late!" I reached out, touched his hand on mine; "It is never too late If you see clearly in the end."
Falling to his knees, He knelt before me. "Forgive me!" he cried. I did not hesitate: "I forgive you! Let it be forgotten." He was still for a moment, bowing at my side. "Thank you," he sighed, And kissed my hand.
He rose to go; I wanted to stop him But, as is the way with dreams, I could not move. At the door he turned, On his fair face The half-smile I remembered so well. "Take care, little one." Then he was gone.
I awoke, My hand still wet from his tears-- Or were they my own? Was it a dream? I cannot say; I know only this: That we two met together, Friends once again.
Who is more at peace now? My friend -- or myself?