Now is the middle game; the opening
Has set the style of play. No use to wish
I had been more aggressive, bolder, wise,
Or treated my opponent with respect,
Now that my game is forced.
Futile is reflection. Each one moves
In turn and does the best with what he has
Of power and position. In the end,
The novice loses and the master wins.
(1982)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Loaded with lessons for living. Well done my frin/10/10