Two boys fight in the mud.
The pain of a fist
Is dampened in the rain.
Their tears are washed away.
One sat on the other’s bench,
And action soon came from anger
Now the noble cause has disappeared
And all that matters is the end,
– With the same taste sharp of blood on his tongue –
As the loser at his feet.
What point does victory serve
When it is nothing but a proven pretender?