Each morning of existence

two armies stand assembled

for an outcome that’s decided

before the horns are blown.

 

A battle fought on sacred ground

favours those with virtue,

our man always has the sunlight

behind him in a showdown.

 

The names of those warriors

are as lengthy as a sentence;

unfamiliar constructions

await the axe and tumble.

 

There’s no chance that their quarrel

could be settled round a table

for lessons must be pointed

as a javelin impaling.

 

Does nothing shock or shatter

your transcendental shell?

The gods wag their fingers

but the sky stands still.