Running out
Alas, it is running out,
our time on earth,
dwindling every second
into nothing
gradually and remorselessly,
while actually our only hope
is that we'll never know
when actually our time is out.
What can we do with this world
of incurable derailment
but concentrate on inner worlds
and render them at least
as perfect and ideal as possible.
You always start with what you've got,
your own, that soul of yours
that you were born with to administer,
your only tool in life
with which you can by power of your will
do actually whatever.
There's the possibility,
and it's a comfort in this comfortless society
to know, that if there is no help at all,
there is at least the power of your soul
that you were given
for the possibility of any revolution.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
Read 512 times
Written on 2008-04-10 at 20:32
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