They are distinguised as a match in the night.
And for which will I fight?
And possibly give up my life?
Is there no end to this strife?
Staying alive takes all my might.
Have I simply lost my sight?
Lost my track? But which is right?
My fists are clenched so hard and tight.
And yet my soul is like a kite.
Never returning from its flight.
Home | Poetry | Critique | Mail