In my breast, A wail of grief, without any spark or flash, Alone survives, passionless, ineffectual. A free man is in prison today, without a spear or a sword; Regret overwhelms me and also my strategy. My heart is drawn by instinct to chains. Perhaps my sword was of the same steel. Once I had a two‑edged sword– It turned into the chains that shackle me now. How whimsical and indifferent Is the Author of fates. |