As I contemplatively meditate on

When I sink en meditatively.

Rereading my poems, estimating, lingering.

Then an apparition appeared before me, with a distrustful look.

It was old and talented, amazingly beautiful.

The genius of the poets of the ancient nations.

Its gaze was like a flame staring at me.

Its fingers pointed to many immortal books of poetry.

What do you sing? It asks with a threatening voice.

Do you not know that there is only one theme for the poet who lives forever?

That is the theme of war, of fate in battle.

The fate of the perfect soldier.

Let it be so, arrogant phantom, I replied.

I also sing of war, a war longer and grander than any

It is conducted in my book.

through changing fortunes, chases, advances and retreats, deferred and shaky victories.

(But I am sure, or almost sure, of the ending.)

The battlefield is the world.

For life and death, for body and eternal soul.

See, here I am too, singing the battle song.

I begin by encouraging the brave soldier.