He stands alone against a wind beaten sky
And wrings his hands for want of why
Rage at things that could have been
And others that are rarely seen
For truth like justice can be hard to find
But in the end do you really mind
Just take what happens in the end
For happiness is a pretense can be hard to pretend.
© Paul Warren Poetry
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem