Novice

In the night of nascent dreams,

Nobody gave half a chance,

The morning looked like half baked bread,

The hunger tortured the soul;

The wish, unhappy and dead.

But still, the mystic rose,

At the call of compatriots', novice but wise,

To march the roads that lead to glory;

Past the memories of fallen domes and charred city of woe,

To discover the virtue that shows how to rule like the kings,

To trumpet along dance and sing,

For one last time:

Before the tunnelled vision that burnt the wings!