My growing youth asks:
How much longer?
The seemingly terrible, wild essence of youth
answers without hesitation: Listen, there's no more delay.
The unsheathed sword lacks even the slightest inclination,
waiting for the voice of the ruthless executioner-logician,
the dying old creation, in earnest hope of fresh new creation,
bows its head beneath the blade—before thunder;
therefore my victory is assured.
The bullet turned rebel.
Under the trigger's harsh blow
on the machine gun's fierce path
death, though certain, never came in the end.
In the fire of the unarmed truth-soldier's blazing gaze
un-creation burned;
then a weapon came... one firm support—
death turned rebel.
The truth-soldier's chest, pierced by machine gun bullets,
the enemy's eyes were scorched.
Crushing gunpowder-mixed hands
the entire future went blind.
Finally lifeless, spiritless,
then static, in my
youth's dialogue—
sleepless, tireless, infallible—truth;
yet it is not amazed.
The detached answer comes:
Listen, there's no more delay...