February 2007, oil on canvass paper, 21x28cm, no references. Soundtrack: "Solitude" & "Exiled" by Judas Priest.

The following poem was kindly written by Therese L. Broderick especially to accompany this painting, and appears by her courtesy. Many thanks, Therese...

The Knight in Exile

~after the painting "Exiled" by Ihsan Alnasrawi

He will never forget the loneliness of this moment —
departing at sunset from the homeland he loves, banished

for his virtue, for pure deeds and honorable speech. Here,
while taking his last view of the castle, blood-red vapors

dimming the distant barricades and gates, he thinks of
the great hall still within, its courtyard once filled with

valiant men, warriors who too quickly turned untrue,
unsheathing swords against a faithful friend. He sees

that all around this ravine of despair, his deepest grief,
heavy hills arise, broad mounds turbaned in reds

and greens, glistening like the sheen of a serpent
emerging from her den. How he wishes now that he

were winged like the birds, perhaps a swallow swooping
over his steed, soaring back through blue-black clouds

to the fortress, then flying through the narrow slits
of the turrets, never to be sent away from any nook

or nest. And for all the long hours of this sleepless
night, he counts every cold fierce star, spear-tips piercing

a moonless sky, each one a warning of some hardship
still to come — a wasteland to cross, a storm to endure,

a baleful enemy to subdue. At midnight he weeps, crying to
the silent heavens, Oh, where have they gone? Where are

my dear companions? Their good names? Our noble cause?
All I defended has come to ruin. All is lost. And yet —

still he believes that an outcast's greatest victory is
never to repeat the falsehoods of traitors, never to don

their same tarnished suits of armor. A virtuous servant
must keep his lifelong oath, forever to seek and protect

that glowing kingdom somewhere far ahead, not yet seen,
a place of dreams fulfilled, ruled by a worthy king.

A true knight must always do his duty, steering his
sturdy steed straight through whatever destiny awaits,

fair or foul, peace or struggle, his well-wrought shield
ever strapped to his back. Just before the morrow's dawn,

he wipes his eyes, then grips the harness reins. Steadfast
once again, he promises anew to heed that most solemn call:

Hold fast to the hope of tomorrow. Though these
are the darkest hours, refuse to be slain by sorrow.

by Therese L. Broderick
October 1, 2008