It was a choice of facility,
to either pick dreams or reality.
I dither, I flinch, I sigh
at last for no good reason choose reality, aye.
With reality I walk headlong-blind and bare
in roads with legions, to a neverland lair.
A place we take, furnished with ramparts,
where souls barter with cakes and tarts.
Then a charade of breeze blows into a street,
there smiles bloom ensconced with deceit.
There I meet the votaries abounding,
one hushing one thousand blaring.
We harrumph and trot to junction yonder,
where they say all meet-roads, strait and slender.
We skip, we sramble but mount with gall,
to scale the place, they call-white knoll.
And when we plonk-in blood, in gore
We see the others come ashore
Haggard and blue, beaten to rims,
They come limping, ones who chose dreams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.