In sunset even smog is peach,
Here, with clarity, I observe this verge:
To sink or drown?
In my hand are skins I have shed
and loves I fought for.

I walk the long route home and consider this.

In strangers I see a future,
Yet I am proud and I am bashful,
I desire to drink softly, to love heavy, to hold bravely,
These can be mine and I am told to wait.

To wait and fight,
Waiting and fighting,
Fighting and waiting:
These are austere memories: cruel men I loathed and have come to understand.

Every drop (of sweat, tears, blood) bears flowers,
These are black and white memories,
The colours of nostalgia.

I will never be a great man,
(Great men are already great),
So I choose to project higher upon mine image
and to speak in riddle
and observe myself,
(Do others see my reds? Think as I do? Am I alone or deluded?)
And here, in flux, with clarity
(neither halfway up nor down)
I am home.


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