This is the present,
A place that bears no resent
A battlefield where all anger must vent,
A garden where flowers are sent,
To a future where we bear us,
or stand alone we shall and must.

This is the present, between morrow and yester,
Let the hungry wolves feast on the great dictator,
and then the sun scalds the great hater,
falling and melting becomes the intricate flother
In between the future and past,
are all the mistakes and corrections we cast.