14

There are no dead ends, only the birthplace
of awaited dreams. Plumbed with the bold mace

the hidden road opens to the dance hall,
the river washes brighter the flower's shawl.

War or peace or war without end − the goal?
Death and grief and death till none dread the toll?

To pass the neighbour's house quietly, stabbed
by the silence that dwells in it? Flagged

down by the stranded traveller, to take fright
and flee from him so he breaks by midnight?

To let a gun shoot at the falling leaf?
To raze the house seeking to trap the thief?

There are no dead ends. Beyond the closed sky
is the kingdom of the brave. And the shy.