THE EAGLE...

When did I stop dreaming?

And believing even though I had wings small like a weaver bird's,

I could soar high like an eagle?

When did I take a back seat, and laid back so I couldn't take any better views, except for a few blurry ones?

When?


Did I say it is all right to be second, third, fourth or fifth,

Instead of being the best I could be

A master of my own art.

An artist so gifted, you are yet to see your best?

When did I stop dreaming, of becoming a painter?

When all that mattered would be my canvas and my brushes,

And I would pour it all out, lay my very being on my canvas?

My tears, my laughter, my sweat and my blood,

All for the sake of life.

Do not go through it.

Live it.

Every moment counts.

Every breath high-valued.

My canvas, my means to validate my dreams,

My brushes, the sword with which to fight this war.

A war I should never have stopped fighting,

Because when you do,

You stop being an eagle.