by Radu Gyr
There is no pain in all lost combats,
There is no pain in wounds of chest,
It’s ugly arms that ache forever,
The arms that choose to rest and rest.
When in your chest thy heart is chanting,
What is the weight of one lost arm?
And if in dust your spade lies broken,
So what? For you’ll arise with flag.
You are not beaten when you’re bleeding,
Nor when your eyes are full of tears,
For there is just one true defeating –
It’s when you give up on your dreams.