The alfresco burial is done The pipe and the kettle-drum have sung the warrior to his sleep; the mourners wail their way back to the village. High above, the mountains which stretch like a young man’s ambition in springtime, an iced drizzle starts to speak of a last snowfall to come. Soon the passes will be clear. The boy, not yet twelve, gathers his father’s breastplate sword and standard; his only legacy to work his fabled visions of empire and adventure. A bitter wind squeezes his face tight concurs a mood but in his clear eyes are dreams of faraway kingdoms in Kabul.