Times, rough and tough
brimming with varied troughs
of unending futures. Always
telling the story, of unevenness.
Calm the storm, untie the mast.
Can’t escape, from your distant past.
Worthy, are you of the realm
of thunders and at deepest helm.
Poach around, those little tales
of fortune and despair, pale
from the exhaustion of truth,
piling together at a telephone booth.
Unknown stories, awaiting their arrival
from the war, against the prime rival
The winds know the cruelty, embarked
upon those eyes, bright and stark.
Keep the stores open, to witness
the blank looks, of emptiness
Cause history will need the long walks,
which meant the world, on the clock.
Let them not poach your belonging,
a history of blood and longing.
Let us be stronger than idler,
in prospect of days brighter.
