The rains pelted down on his body,
But the battle throughout the day raged on.
“It is dusk!” announced somebody,
His enemies and he broke apart until dawn.
He slashed down a crop of hundred next morning,
But another hundred arose.
They all came down upon him without a warning,
And began anew their exchange of blows.
He was growing weary of this great war, they call life.
Outnumbered everyday he somehow struggled on.
He had started feeling, he’s not to make it out alive,
Bloody and bruised, that day on the field he finally fell down.
He crawled to take shelter beneath an apple tree.
Seeing his plight, someone in the heavens decided to send her along.
She healed him in the night; stroked his hair gently, taking him in her arms.
New blood ran through his veins and he suddenly felt he was ten thousand strong.
With a force that now knew no bounds he tackled them again next day.
Before evening, at the top of his lungs he was screaming “Is that it old life? Bring on more!”
Now no more was life all war and strife, but a game, or best a play.
Thus ended the raconteur his narration of this age old lore.
© The Flowers of Art