I never ran to win the race
Have rarely done.
The aim remains to cross the line;
And not to prove a faster pace.
Never gonna be that dreamed ace,
That flawless one.
To focus on me is just fine;
With perhaps a few drops of grace.
But with just my footsteps to trace,
One can't go on.
Up ahead may lie a great sign;
But I'll still need some few good face.
I know the world's awash with more fruitless contests,
Than pulling through some real tests.
I guess Chinua's dictum so true has told:
Gravity's let go it's hold;
Telling on us to make our case.
Is there a thing now we could do to reach our quests;
Something worthy of one's zests?
Could always tell a few, prized beyond gold;
And one priceless in its mould:
"It's our Art unborn to embrace".
On self thrives conquests true, not on rivals.
Things can then fix themselves in place.
And while we have our gold to mine,
They, the men, can toil on fields in cold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem