This is where we fight,
Frost, snow, hailstones and fire,
Through incessant hypothesis for tomorrow’s attire.
Our breaths are free, but dices we hold,
And he who dilly-dallies shall have his dice taken.
Hence our breath we hold and dices we roll,
For inevitable it is, lest we are forsaken.
In this seeming dudgeon of an exploited Earth, we stand,
Against the devious machinations of Fate, we fight,
Hoping our bravado piques her feminine side.
As we stagger, bruised, from one fiasco to another,
What it is all for we are left to wonder.
For by the hectic, frantic day, we are torn asunder,
And the solemn, mournful night, we are deserted, haggard.
Accursed, accursed Gaia is where we fight,
The de trops for the love, the penurious, for the dineros.
The great for the change, the mediocre for the morrow.
And despite dichotomies between reality and all we aspire,
When, disillusioned, we arrive at the shores of Gaia,
We still are, and though bent by tedium
We still stand even as Death finagles life of us.
And you wonder why we fight?
Why determined we are, a farrago of characters?
It is because we survivors are blessed with hope,
The hope, even, for a deux ex machina.
That in the fecundity of our ideas one shall blossom,
Or in the progression of our years we finally shall gain,
Idiosyncratic, pedestaled Grail each seek to attain
And so this, brethren, is where we stand,
Feisty beings, ferrous willed.
We stand and, faute de mieux, we fight
Feverish at our own potential, we strive
To leave graffiti on Life’s fence.
Hence, though enervated, we stand because of what we are…
Men.
