by Harum Mukhayer
A fine configuration of time and place
A closing distance of open space
Not knowing when the end began
We do, knowing only that we can
An error on the choice of stake
They live to conquer and give to take.
To speak true,
That wretched hue.
Yet, neither a fault to condemn nor shun
Pretence is the King of Hearts
His battle justly won.