Cry does he not,
This man of youthful age.
He can see the trials upon him.
Those must not enrage.
He realizes that he has naught but one,
One thing that he has left to hold.
That is his honor and his pride,
Both of which are bold.
It is not anger that engulfs him,
Nor self-pity or shame,
But the destruction of his battlement,
It’s mission left to blame.
So is it truly his regression,
Or his journey to anew?
Created by the heavens,
Leave him nothing left to do.
So he sits,
And he sits.
Awaiting his demise.
For their hate against his own domineer
Is what will a fight arise.
He will wait for oceans passing
To wash upon his shore.
For he cannot justify
What they wish to be more.
Is he too simple to be accepted?
May his peace be taken afar?
Or have they given up all hope abroad,
Destroying those that are?
Like the sound of the seagulls on those solid busts,
Is he ever so attracted.
Even light in this confounded place
May be now refracted.
He is left to ponder his visions again,
Those of previous been contorted,
By this place that challenges his own existence,
With all his achievements deported.
The Seagulls call, he can hear them pray
Upon their solid altars.
Can the others hear them and their blessed songs,
Or are they left as Gibraltar?
But he knows some day that he will reach his friends,
Their white feathers and breast’s astride.
He will come across another bird
That wants not but pride.
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