My voice is hoarse
  I'm like a bird
that can't sing-
before we parted
my songs of love
you had gladly heard-
you even joined me
in total abandon
without the slightest hesitation-

I can't sing now as before
I know I'd choke if I try
my heart would no longer respond
in brokenness I'd choose to die-

when love-songs I hear anywhere
my ears I'll immediately shut
the past I wish not to resurrect
it'd only break my heart

This is the age
    of angst and rage
    the evil of man
    has exploded
    and morality is dead-
    nations in wars
    and conflicts
    innocent lives
   have been lost
   yet there's no sign
   of pity or remorse-

   the tears of mothers
  and children fill the earth
  the lives of husbands and fathers
  are sacrificed for no worthy cause

  will there be peace?
  Will poor souls be consoled?
  Will love overcome hate?
  Will evil be cut away from its wicked source?

How often is often ?
How seldom is seldom?
How is such measured?
Who has the final opinion?

Do you and I know?
Does it really matter?
Is each to be denied or treasured?
This is ultimately a personal conjecture.

I'm my own,  my alone
I'll decide what suits my character:
the often and seldom of my life
I'll balance -- in the best order

Truth isn't often welcome-
     it lays bare the things
     we shouldn't have done

Once time
you've mastered
everything else
you've conquered

West:   Wrestle

     Zen:     Be settled

The greatest strength
    emerges when everyone
    has walked away from you
    leaving you alone to your battle-
   your every ounce of energy
   you'll harness to overcome the obstacle
   you'd never met before