Thursday, July 26, 2007
♥ 9:54 pm
The time comes nearer.
Soon the works of Shakespeare, Owen, Frost and Soyinka will be laid before us, awaiting the fateful hand of choice, of fate, of nature's power (as Lear would subtlely put it.)
Picking one, flipping it over,
Waves of memories flood back,
numerous scribbling, uncountable words
Swarm the mind, restricted by the hand.
Nervous we are not,
Petrified we try not
However, even if we succeed
What cost have we born,
What have we lost?
haha anyone can be a poet.
je t'aime vous, ma belle!
(dropped back into reality)
Labels: IOCs
