Comfortable watching raptors fly.
Ok with their swoop for food.
At home with this warrior behind my eyes,
Wanting battle, wanting the crude. Pleasantly to hear violin, cello and flute.
Wanting to hold a woman's soft delicate hand.
Capable of being a good father, not brute.
Willing to walk bare foot in the sand. Knowing that war is to be dread,
That catching glimpses of light clear my head.
Stretching out on a pillowed bed,
While cheering on the thankful dead. I arch my back as you scream and shout.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem