Whenever choices have become real slight
between the tiger, and the pretty dame,
it’s ending, not beginning, of the game,
and every option leads out of the light.
The answer cannot be simple or right,
since both our choices lead us into shame;
instead our hope is only in the flame,
our fraying guide across the sleepless night
possessing power far greater than plain force,
whose firm decisions bring us to the stark
point of descrying ending of all wars.
It’s far beyond correction of the course,
it’s shattering of the all but final mark,
and viewing, with Dante, the sharp, clear, night stars.
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