How have I began, now that the wind and the fire interface with the rage of war. To whom should I run to as master, the fire which shall burn me out or the wind that seizes and flings me about. Which shall I run to for shelter, the promise of this world or thoughts of my heart. Why has the ocean of satisfaction suddenly gone dry! what fountain have I began, which flowed down to my thirst? what mission have praised my imagination, giving me a cheap fake victory sold out even cheaper. Now by the wind and the fire. Life has loosened me death have bundled me. The fight is not the fight I thought it is only a sacrifice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
only sacrifice, I like it, thanks.