To die again

To love and fail and to love again, is that not the triumph of the spirit?

And yet we speak of children, wars and books 

as though the world is made up 

Of naked waters off unsanded shores 

Together four arms bring into this earth

A space that has been carved in heaven

And yet we speak of jobs, green papers, losses and gains.

When he was born, he must have foreseen

That if he grows up, he would die

And so cupid remained this dear dwarf on hoary walls 

While love failed again and again, 

To come out into real life from frescos, stardust, memories and lust.

And yet, somehow,

It is of wars we speak 

when we speak of courage

not of the insatiable desire 

to die. Yet again