How somber and melancholy this day was.
The skies were grey. The air was icy. The ground was a miserable morass of mud and dirty water. The rain fell contemptuously, to the point where I felt as if I was one of Gonzalo de Cordoba's resolute espadachins (swordsmen), clad in rusting armor and trudging through the muck and mire of the wretched Italian countryside, waiting for the signal to infiltrate the French camp and smash their army to pieces, during the brutal campaign on the Garigliano River, in the Year of Our Lord, 1503.
As I gazed upon the dismal horizon of this twilight world of perpetual sadness and frustration, I briefly, fleetingly felt in touch with those intrepid fighting men who followed El Gran Capitan to glory, over five centuries ago. The rain fell. I could almost hear the warm chanting of folk songs, the occasional laughter as comrades-in-arms attempted to break the stifling drudgery of the weather, and the familar drone of the hurdy-gurdy.
How long had it been, since I last saw my Love? Would I ever hold her again, in that fierce embrace? These are what I pondered this day, as I sat in the rain, sharpening my sword in preparation for the oncoming battle.
The rain continues to fall. And the battle has not yet begun...