i am armored
on my hand is the sharpest sword
i am ready for battle
to kill the enemies
your enemies
when i am about to win
and stab the victim
you are there running
towards me
asking that i be forgiving
your enemies are spared
and they all laugh at me
my armor is rusty now
my sword not as sharp as i
once held it
now you have enemies again
asking that i go to battle
who are you? i am not stupid anymore.
Use other mercenaries
and if there is now
Go, fight yourself, and have yourself killed
so i can offer you flowers
for the dead
so i can for once rest and smile
and tell myself
i am free and i work for no one anymore.
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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