reaching to help these lost souls
I know best their forsaken hope
no gain in trading with the devil
crossroads deals gone badly wrong
staring blankly with addicted eyes
barely able to move haggard bodies
half listening, dozing through my prayer
unable or unwilling to gather their mind
Faustian pride did not defeat them
though surely once they did aspire
it is sullen shame, pride's opposite
wherein they seal self destruction
no zeal of Icarus temped flight
few ever pursued mastery at all
sought no dream beyond magical ease
the fall, a crazed back street thirst
few can understand the wasted need
the sick belief that life must offer more
must always offer endless higher highs
till a secret phantasm is cheaply had
ah but is not hubris wanting too grandly
Faustus or Robert Johnson, demanding
just a trifle more than life supplies
Icarus wasted, no wings, no escape
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like it so much, barry.Icarus here fits so well.