Birds of Paradise

A toast to those who can think life from the outside,
those who can wait without slumber.

Who can savor the sweet taste of victory after the fight?
It is before the fight, before the warriors have gathered
their weapons and their spears
before blood is shed, before the acre smell of blood
rises across the field of battle
to penetrate the nostrils of the mounted knight;
It is before the battle that hope is collected amongst the men,
amongst the souls of men cowardly waiting to march to glory,
slowly and gradually nesting their strength.

Forces
platoons
regiments;
Soldiers of fate
surrounded
intrigued
mystified
frightened
helpless
gone, already gone.

Gripping our weapons close, friends in suffering we become.
So we march. So we go. Forward. To war.
Who can savor the sweet taste of victory after the fight?
Is it not better to watch the birds of paradise fly by
above our heads as uncertainty rules over men?
The earth is for the wicked. Victory is for the generals.
Us soldiers can only care about life.

Olhem, nem sei. Semi-homenagem aos que ainda se atrevem a pensar, a sentir, a ser moralmente inteiros e completos num mundo estranho, passando por incompreendidos? Semi-homenagem aos que se atrevem a lutar even when "all hope is gone"? Auto-homenagem? Auto-reunião de forças? Auto-reunião de competências esquecidas e ignoradas por tantos? Auto-bajulação? Auto-convencimento de que há coisas que não controlamos? Não sei. Se souber, depois eu telefono.