One Perfect Rose

by Dorothy Parker

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.'
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

Comments : A typical Dorothy Parker poem, though not as incisive as some of her other ones; thanks for sending me the poem, S.
If you want to read one of her best, click on this link to read 'Resume'. You'll find links to a lot of her other work after the comments on that page.
Enjoy !
- Zen

Elements of Composition

By A.K. Ramanujan

Composed as I am, like others,
of elements on certain well-known lists,
father's seed and mother's egg

gathering earth, air, fire, mostly
water, into a mulberry mass,
moulding calcium,

carbon, even gold, magnesium and such,
into a chattering self tangled
in love and work,

scary dreams, capable of eyes that can see,
only by moving constantly,
the constancy of things

like Stonehenge or cherry trees;

add uncle's eleven fingers
making shadow-plays of rajas
and cats, hissing,

becoming fingers again, the look
of panic on sister's face
an hour before

her wedding, a dated newspaper map,
of a place one has never seen, maybe
no longer there

after the riots, downtown Nairobi,
that a friend carried in his passport
as others would

a woman's picture in their wallets;

add the lepers of Madurai,
male, female, married,
with children,

lion faces, crabs for claws,
clotted on their shadows
under the stone-eyed

goddesses of dance, mere pillars,
moving as nothing on earth
can move --

I pass through them
as they pass through me
taking and leaving

affections, seeds, skeletons,

millennia of fossil records
of insects that do not last
a day,

body-prints of mayflies,
a legend half-heard
in a train

of the half-man searching
for an ever-fleeing
other half

through Muharram tigers,
hyacinths in crocodile waters,
and the sweet

twisted lives of epileptic saints,

and even as I add
I lose, decompose,
into my elements

into other names and forms,
past, and passing, tenses
without time,

caterpillar on a leaf, eating,
being eaten.

Comments : Thanks for the poem, S.
I loved the images, and so many of them ; ‘moulding calcium, carbon, even gold, magnesium and such, into a chattering self tangled in love and work’ – loved the transition from the simple to the complex, the contrast in ‘millennia of fossil records of insects that do not lasta day,’ etc, go ahead, read it a few times and choose your favourite images. - Zen

Snippets from Saki

'You are not on the Road to Hell,'
You tell me with fanatic glee:
Vain boaster, what shall that avail
If Hell is on the road to thee?

A Poet praised the Evening Star,
Another praised the Parrot's hue:
A Merchant praised his merchandise,
And he, at least, praised what he knew."

Comments : A friend forwarded the first delightful delicious snippet to me (Thanks S), when I googled for it, I found the second too, had to share both. - Zen

The Cloud

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,--
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

Comments : Read the last paragraph in the newspaper recently, the lovely imagery made me search out the entire poem. Quite apt for the weather too, don't you think ? - Zen

Lore

By R.S.Thomas

Job Davies, eighty-five
Winters old, and still alive
After the slow poison
And treachery of the seasons.

Miserable? Kick my arse!
It needs more than the rain's hearse,
Wind-drawn to pull me off
The great perch of my laugh.

What's living but courage?
Paunch full of hot porridge
Nerves strengthened with tea,
Peat-black, dawn found me

Mowing where the grass grew,
Bearded with golden dew.
Rhythm of the long scythe
Kept this tall frame lithe

What to do? Stay green.
Never mind the machine,
Whose fuel is human souls
Live large, man, and dream small.

Comments : Read the first two lines of this poem in Anuradha Roy’s ‘Folded Earth’, found them intriguing enough to search for the entire poem. Now that I have read the poem, I really like it – for the description of the indomitable spirit of this obstinate farmer; I imagine Davies is one of those, who, when his time comes, will not go gentle into that good night, as Dylan Thomas put it. Incidentally, here's another poem by R.S. Thomas that deals with old age, though the old farmer in this one feels death growing closer and is worried by it, unlike the gentleman in 'Lore' that seems ready to laugh in death's face, or, more likely, kick it's arse.
p.s. About ‘Folded Earth’ by Anuradha Roy – great book, get your hands on it as soon as possible.
p.p.s Lovely quote about writing a poem by R. S. Thomas; “My chief aim is to make a poem. You make it for yourself firstly, and then if other people want to join in, then there we are.”
- Zen

Links to some other poems by R.S.Thomas below :
http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.com/1999/08/poetry-for-supper-r-s-thomas.html
http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.com/1999/07/ancients-of-world-r-s-thomas.html
http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.com/2005/06/to-young-poet-r-s-thomas.html
http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.com/2000/09/taliesin-r-s-thomas.html

I have no power

Nizar Qabbani

I have no power to change your nature
my books are of no use to you
and my convictions do not convince you
nor does my fatherly council do you any good
you are the queen of anarchy, of madness, of belonging
...to no one
Stay that way.

Comments : What can I say ! Sort of skimmed through the poem, said ho-hum, something made me re-read it and I fell in love with it. Thanks to Ruks for posting this on facebook. - Zen

Some folk are born with knowledge of their goal

Thomas Thurman

Some folk are born with knowledge of their goal.
I've met them, though I'm not like that myself;
I'm wandering through life, a placid soul,
content to leave adventures on the shelf.
I've loved and lived without a way to know
the field where I should strive to be the best:
to pan for gold, or be a CEO,
or cure disease, or conquer Everest;
and likewise, you're a Poohstick in the stream:
you drift through life, without an end in mind.
We came together, neither with a dream,
both happy with our futures undefined,
our hoping open-ended; yet it seems
our life together's fashioned from our dreams.

Comment : Facebook Zindabad ! A friend pointed me to this collection of Thomas Thurman's poetry. Really liked easy-going-drifter tone and mood of the poem above. - Zen

Urdu Poetry - an introduction

Aakar Patel's article in today's edition of the Mint Lounge serves as a lovely introduction to Urdu poetry. Think it is worth clicking on this link and reading the entire article. For those that lack the patience, am reproducing some sections from the article below :

Faiz Ahmed “Faiz” (Success) died in 1984 and thought Partition was unfulfilling. He wrote a poem about this called August 1947, which opens with this couplet: “Yeh dagh-dagh ujala, yeh shab-gazidah sehar/Woh intezar tha jiska, yeh woh sehar to nahin (This stained light we see in this tattered dawn/This isn’t the morning we had been promised).”

Director Sudhir Mishra named his movie after the Ghalib couplet: Hazaaron khwahishen aisi, kay har khwahish pe dam niklay/Bohat niklay meray armaan. Lekin phir bhi kam niklay.

Kahaan maikhanay ka darwaza Ghalib, aur kahaan waiz/Par itna jaante hain, kal woh jaata tha kay hum niklay (You wouldn’t associate the mullah with the tavern, Ghalib/But this I know: I was leaving it yesterday when I saw him enter).

Ghalib could laugh at himself and that made him unusual, for good poets are pompous. My absolute favourite couplet from him is: “Yeh masail-e-tasawwuf, yeh tera bayaan Ghalib/Hum tujhay wali samajhte, jo na badakhwar hota (These philosophies you spout with such pompous gravity, Ghalib!/People would think you wise, if you weren’t such a goddamn drunk).

One writer I am fond of is the Gujarati polyglot Sheikh Adam Abuwala. Few know him, but all of us know his work. He wrote the ghazals that Gujarati singer Pankaj Udhas sang. Abuwala wrote in Urdu and in very good Gujarati. One couplet of his I like is: “Adam, gajab ni vaat chhe: astik hata amey/Nastik bani gaya amey, karan Khuda mali gayo (I used to be a believer, O Adam/But I stopped after knowing God).” Abuwala had a certain style about him. He spoke German and English, and one of his books is called Adam thi Sheikh Adam sudhi (From Adam to Sheikh Adam!).

The Gambler

Songwriters : Lorenz Hart, Richard Rogers
Singer : Kenny Rogers

On a warm summer's eve
On a train bound for nowhere
I met up with the gambler
We were both too tired to sleep
So we took turns a-starin'
Out the window at the darkness
The boredom overtook us, he began to speak

He said, "Son, I've made a life
Out of readin' people's faces
Knowin' what the cards were
By the way they held their eyes
So if you don't mind my sayin'
I can see you're out of aces
For a taste of your whiskey
I'll give you some advice"

So I handed him my bottle
And he drank down my last swallow
Then he bummed a cigarette
And asked me for a light
And the night got deathly quiet
And his faced lost all expression
He said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy
You gotta learn to play it right

You've got to know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
Know when to run
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealin's done

Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away
And knowin' what to keep
'Cause every hand's a winner
And every hand's a loser
And the best that you can hope for
Is to die in your sleep"

And when he finished speakin'
He turned back toward the window
Crushed out his cigarette
And faded off to sleep
And somewhere in the darkness
The gambler he broke even
And in his final words
I found an ace that I could keep

You've got to know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealin's done

You've got to know when to hold 'em
(When to hold 'em)
Know when to fold 'em
(When to fold 'em)
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealin's done

You've got to know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run
You never count your money
When you're sittin' at the table
There'll be time enough for countin'
When the dealin's done


Comments : Before I discovered the cynicism of Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, there was the pragmatism of 'The Gambler'. - Zen

Metaphor

By Thomas Thurman

A metaphor’s a gentle curse
that darkens life with soft implying:
or so I learned from reading verse.

A blanket is a woollen hearse.
A lover’s word is widows’ sighing.
A metaphor’s a gentle curse.

And sex is just a human purse
with prices, goods, and people buying,
or so I learned from reading verse:

transactions made we can’t reverse:
a one-way street, a kind of dying.
A metaphor’s a gentle curse,

though dying is a friendly nurse
with copper coins to ease your crying,
or so I learned from reading verse.

I’m left to wonder which is worse:
to hear your truth, or see you lying.
A metaphor’s a gentle curse,
or so I learned from reading verse.

Comments : A friend linked to this poem on facebook today. I liked it and decided to post it here. I liked the description of a metaphor as ‘a gentle curse that darkens life with soft implying’, as well as ‘I’m left to wonder………………lying’. - Zen

Summer Song

By Lola and Dave Brubeck
(Sung by Louis Armstrong)

Love, to me, is like a summer day
Silent 'cause, there's just too much to say
Still, and warm, and peaceful,
Even clouds that may drift by
Can't disturb our summer sky

I'll take summer, that's my time of year
Winter's shadow, seems to disappear
Gay is swanny season,
That's the reason I can say
That I love a summer day

I hear laughter, from the swimming hole
Kids out fishin', with the willow pole
Boats come driftin', round the bend
Why must summer, ever end...

Love, to me, is like a summer day
If it ends, the memories will stay
Still, and warm, and peaceful,
Now the days are getting long
I can sing my summer song

I hear laughter, from the swimmin' hole
Kids out fishin', with the willow pole
Boats come driftin', round the bend
Why must summer, ever end...

Oh, love to me, is like a summer's day
If it ends, the memories will stay
Still, and warm, and peaceful
Now the days are getting long
I can sing, my summer song

Comments : Link to the song here. Doesn’t it just evoke mellow summer holidays ? Especially due to the slow and lazy way in which it’s been sung, and that voice ! - Zen

My Creed

By Edgar Albert Guest

To live as gently as I can;
To be, no matter where, a man;
To take what comes of good or ill
And cling to faith and honor still;
To do my best, and let that stand
The record of my brain and hand;
And then, should failure come to me,
Still work and hope for victory.

To have no secret place wherein
I stoop unseen to shame or sin;
To be the same when I'm alone
As when my every deed is known;
To live undaunted, unafraid
Of any step that I have made;
To be without pretense or sham
Exactly what men think I am.

To leave some simple mark behind
To keep my having lived in mind;
If enmity to aught I show,
To be an honest, generous foe,
To play my little part, nor whine
That greater honors are not mine.
This, I believe, is all I need
For my philosophy and creed.

Comments : After ‘Bag of Tools’, the next poem from the series of UBS ads mentioned in this post . I think my preference for today's poem is influenced by Ben Kingsley’s rendition of it – he delivers such strong lines in such a down-to-earth manner ! - Zen

God, A Poem

By James Fenton

A nasty surprise in a sandwich,
A drawing-pin caught in your sock,
The limpest of shakes from a hand which
You'd thought would be firm as a rock,

A serious mistake in a nightie,
A grave disappointment all round
Is all that you'll get from th'Almighty,
Is all that you'll get underground.

Oh he said: 'If you lay off the crumpet
I'll see you alright in the end.
Just hang on until the last trumpet.
Have faith in me, chum-I'm your friend.'

But if you remind him, he'll tell you:
'I'm sorry, I must have been pissed-
Though your name rings a sort of a bell. You
Should have guessed that I do not exist.

'I didn't exist at Creation,
I didn't exist at the Flood,
And I won't be around for Salvation
To sort out the sheep from the cud-

'Or whatever the phrase is. The fact is
In soteriological terms
I'm a crude existential malpractice
And you are a diet of worms.

'You're a nasty surprise in a sandwich.
You're a drawing-pin caught in my sock.
You're the limpest of shakes from a hand which
I'd have thought would be firm as a rock,

'You're a serious mistake in a nightie,
You're a grave disappointment all round-
That's all you are, ' says th'Almighty,
'And that's all that you'll be underground.'

Comment : Thanks to S for sending me this poem. As she says, not one of her favourites, but a funny one nevertheless and worth running on this blog.

Bag of Tools

By R. L. Sharpe

Isn't it strange how princes and kings,
and clowns that caper in sawdust rings,
and common people, like you and me,
are builders for eternity?

Each is given a list of rules;
a shapeless mass; a bag of tools.
And each must fashion, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block, or a Stepping-Stone.

Comments : A friend (Thanks, V) pointed me to this ad for a bank that had a famous person reading Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem ‘If’. I read it, liked it and searched for more such ads on youtube. ‘A bag of tools’ was one of those that turned up on youtube. Loved the poem and loved how Maggie Smith delivered it. - Zen

Haiku

By Mizuta Masahide

My storehouse burnt down,
There is nothing to obstruct
The moon-view.
(trans. Blyth)

Now that my storehouse
has burned down, nothing
conceals the moon.
(trans. Yoel Hoffmann)

Comments : This article in the Indian Express supplement today quoted the haiku above. I loved the attitude displayed in the haiku and decided to run it on the blog.

Gotta Serve Somebody

By Bob Dylan

You may be an ambassador to England or France,
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance,
You may be the heavyweight champion of the world,
You may be a socialite with a long string of pearls

But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

You might be a rock 'n' roll addict prancing on the stage,
You might have drugs at your command, women in a cage,
You may be a business man or some high degree thief,
They may call you Doctor or they may call you Chief

But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

You may be a state trooper, you might be a young Turk,
You may be the head of some big TV network,
You may be rich or poor, you may be blind or lame,
You may be living in another country under another name

But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

You may be a construction worker working on a home,
You may be living in a mansion or you might live in a dome,
You might own guns and you might even own tanks,
You might be somebody's landlord, you might even own banks

But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

You may be a preacher with your spiritual pride,
You may be a city councilman taking bribes on the side,
You may be workin' in a barbershop, you may know how to cut hair,
You may be somebody's mistress, may be somebody's heir

But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

Might like to wear cotton, might like to wear silk,
Might like to drink whiskey, might like to drink milk,
You might like to eat caviar, you might like to eat bread,
You may be sleeping on the floor, sleeping in a king-sized bed

But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

You may call me Terry, you may call me Timmy,
You may call me Bobby, you may call me Zimmy,
You may call me R.J., you may call me Ray,
You may call me anything but no matter what you say

You're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody.
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

Comments : Read a reference to this song in the paper, and had to hunt out the lyrics. I assumed that Dylan was being his usual cynical self (and who serves up cynicism better than him, ....except for Cohen maybe), but apparently this was written during a phase in which religion crept into Dylan's song-writing. As a paean to the Lord, I don't like the song much. But seen through a filter of cynicism and sarcasm, I love it, whether Dylan intended it to be read that way or not.

Random snippet

‎'Yesterday someone said, "It gets late so early."
I wrote it down. I was going to do something with it.
Maybe it is a title and this life is the poem.'
~ Naomi Shihab Nye

Comments : A friend had this as her status update on facebook. I liked it enough to post it here. Someday I promise to hunt out biographical info on the poet and other poems by her. - Zen

Pessimism's Ghost

(this post is copied from Falstaff's blog - http://2x3x7.blogspot.com/2011/03/pessimisms-ghost.html)

It takes a particular kind of despair
To see the glass half emptied of air.

Comments : Tongue-in-cheek, and concise - Just delicious. Started grinning when I read it. - Zen

Ha Raham (Mehfuz)

Note : Lyrics of a song from the movie 'Aamir' follow, you can hear the song at http://www.in.com/music/aamir/songs-39351.html

Allah…
aani jaani… hai kahaani…
bulbule si… zindgaani…
banti kabhi bigadti…
tez hawa se ladti, bhidti…

ha raham, ha raham, farma e-Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, farma e-Khuda…
mehfuz har kadam karna e-Khuda, e-Khuda
mehfuz har kadam karna e-Khuda, e-Khuda…
Allah…

saanson ki sooti… dor anoothi…
jal jayegi… jal jayegi…
band jo laaye the, haath ki muthhi…
khul jayegi… khul jayegi…

armaan kare kayaa ye ujlee…
mitti mein mil jayegi..
chaahe jitni shamaayein raushan kar le…
dhoop to dhal jayegi, jayegi…

ha raham, ha raham, farma e-Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, farma e-Khuda…
mehfuz har kadam karna e-Khuda, e-Khuda
mehfuz har kadam karna e-Khuda, e-Khuda…

sone chamak mein, sikko khanak mein…
milta nahi… milta nahi…
dhool ke zarron mein, dhoonde koi tu…
milta wahin… milta wahin…

kya majaal teri marzee ke aage…
bando ki chal jayegi…
thaame ungli jo tu kathputli bhi…
chaal badal jayegi, jayegi..

ha raham, ha raham, farma e-Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, farma e-Khuda…
mehfuz har kadam karna e-Khuda, e-Khuda
mehfuz har kadam karna e-Khuda, e-Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…/khuda….
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…/Allah…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…/Allah….
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…/aa…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…/Allah…
ha raham, ha raham, Khuda…

Comments : Beautiful beautiful song from Aamir. Lyrics to die for. The amazing Amit Trivedi weaves his magic again. Reminds me of arziyan from Delhi 6. This sufi song is good enough to make me a true believer. (You get to sing all these cool songs). - Sachin

The Road Ahead or the Road Behind

George J. Moriarty

Sometimes I think the fates must grin as we denounce them and insist,
The only reason we can’t win is the fates themselves have missed.
Yet, there lives on the ancient claim – we win or lose within ourselves,
The shining trophies on our shelves can never win tomorrow’s game.
So you and I know deeper down there is a chance to win the crown,
But when we fail to give our best, we simply haven’t met the test
Of giving all and saving none until the game is really won.
Of showing what is meant by grit, of fighting on when others quit,
Of playing through not letting up, it’s bearing down that wins the cup.
Of taking it and taking more until we gain the winning score,
Of dreaming there’s a goal ahead, of hoping when our dreams are dead,
Of praying when our hopes have fled. Yet, losing, not afraid to fall,
If bravely we have given all, for who can ask more of a man
than giving all within his span, it seems to me, is not so far from – Victory.
And so the fates are seldom wrong, no matter how they twist and wind,
It’s you and I who make our fates, we open up or close the gates,
On the Road Ahead or the Road Behind.

Comment : Loved the spirit of the poem. Thanks for the guest contribution, A.