The gust that holds your chest, immovable pride
From zealous ancients, to this is say farewell.
To this ardence I despair, hone your hatchet
But not for death, for pride, for fickle lies.
Imploringly I should stand upon those dead comrades
Who lie in the cultivated foreign soil: gone, dead, no more –
To speak the words you already know;
That this is you.
I speak for life, I make declarations for love
Sweet, spicy tasteless love; this is the only
Protection needed, when metallic claws invade.
The knowledge that out there,
Someone, somewhere ultimately will care.