The sturdy pen sits in a pool of blood;
A scarred piece of paper writhes in pain;
The scabbed hand tries to rise
With a wish to write again...
Across a river of words, not long back,
The Warriors had weaved a brilliant wall;
Wherefore is lost the power to battle
In desperateness they recall...
All their efforts are boldly made:
Over they rise, again to fall;
For however much they try to rhyme,
They cannot rhyme with life at all...
'tis but the poet's Soul that shall bring forth
His heart and sinew may have stopped now but
not for very long...