Wayward Son

A father sat with hidden face,  His sobbing shoulders shaking.  Drops from his beard rolled down his robes.  Beneath, his heart fell, breaking.    “My son…my son…” the warrior choked,  Upon the chief of all his woes.  His voice sunk down through hands stained red,  With more blood than his foes.    A spot along his house stood bare,  With nothing in his stead.  An olive plant–had he been?  A branch, cracked off, was dead.    The old man grieved as one who knows,  That this, time would not mend....