What would count as heroism
in this somewhat soiled and tattered bloke
at the brink of God knows what?
Is there fight left in the old boy yet?
Can the passion for right and fair
and truthfulness and hope
arise once more?
His diminished armoury consists of
little more than words and cadences
and rhythms and rhymes
and visions brave
and faint echoes of clamour
of ambitions half-achieved
and battles ill-conceived.
Might it be that his words may yet
be fashioned into bows and slings
of defiant outrage
and that Goliaths out there
might fall and fail
under a hail of pointed words
and cunning and deftly worded verses?
© Karel Reus
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