Ødelagt Skjold

Once again, a fool – or, perhaps, some broken

whatever-you-are, poor, confused soul,

blanketed in self-pity and ignited in comparison:

I must needs relinquish a death-grip on a hope that is not mine to grasp,

for a far better one bids my steps follow it.

I had chosen one and now

I find there is a better way, but I must lessen and Another increase.

I find, then, that I lack love.

 

The deeds of others exceed your paltry attempts at reality – should you stand

the breath of a chance,

your honour would be small, you torn phantom of meaning –

fain would you give it away and loth you would be

to part from it.

As it is you are gasping,

and you have only mounted the first rung –

the rest stretch upward, and you

are at the bottom –

a nothing.

 

Lies, enemy, lies.

Yet oft I lower my shield

and welcome your arrows.

I wish to raise it up – again –

and stand upon the shoulders of Another.

Should my shield be shattered, then I wish it done in the fight.

If nothing grips my name, and if so must be the end, then, let it be –

nothing will stand.

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