As twilight calls curtain, to end the day,
I feel so small, I tower among ants,
Whilst I reckon my faults from where I lay,
For nightly rest, while regret even rants;
The bells at dusk, now toll for glory lost,
To mourn the passage of a chance gone by,
My ego riles, upon counting the cost,
Of shoring heaven for a higher sky;
And now, the ill winds blow, though not the norm,
When luck bestows its grace, none is assured,
The best to rise up to the raging storm,
Might be to kiss the ground, footwork secured;
.......Until the good times, in the morning light,
.......For yet, another day, another fight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem