Why doesn't victory arrive 

as an exquisite combination 

shattering the chess squares 

with incomparable magic? 

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Is there anything more rewarding than the unadulterated embrace of a child?

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Since society is a tinder box 

and people match sticks, 

shouldn't we be thankful that 

bonfires are a rarity?

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What was her name, 

the woman who peddled dreams, 

and who was she in the bright red dress selling laughs?

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If all careless phrases are recycled, would they emerge carefree or sober?

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As my arms grow shorter by and by 

would her love grow less for want of  embrace?

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Why is the marketplace where

dreams are peddled and purchased

dressed in the most forlorn garments,

the most dismal shades?

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