From dark deceit where cleverly
I wily steer my selfish goals
I thank my wit for saving me
the fruitless pain of braver souls
I swerve the clutch of circumstance
Whilst others wince and cry aloud
I dodge the bludgeoning of chance
My head intact and safely bowed
Beyond this place - a coward's lair
there looms the shade of more charades
and through my ruse and threatening air
divert the pistols and the blades
It matters not how you see fate
I slyly stay in firm control
I am the master of the fake,
I am the beggar at your bowl
(with thanks to Mr Henley, may he forgive me)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice job! I enjoyed this alot especially the part 'I am the master of fake, I am the beggar at your bowl. Keep up the good work.