If trust and blame and waiting lies, could turn
our hate to good and make us wise, could turn
the master, make our thoughts his aim, then he
imposter, may just feel the same. Then he
disaster, never spoke the truth, the fool,
the knave, would see the dying youth. But fools
can't see our broken lives, worn out, torn out
by tools, for killing, not living. Torn out
on one turn of pitch and toss, beginnings
never breathe about their loss. Beginnings,
who will serve now you are gone? Your sinew
on classroom walls, screams, 'hold on!' Your sinew,
virtue, foes, friends and common touch, say if...
In an unforgiving minute, say if...