Off in the distance, just out of sight.
Lies my destination, in the dim light.
There's fire in my loins with will in my might,
That I might get there, before the dark night.
So I press on the accelerator and hold on tight,
And lose the encumbrances that hold me back.
To outrun my rivals, on the left and the right.
I sense that they're gaining, on the attack.
But I don't see them, it’s just that they lack,
The skill and the power with which I fly.
Into the vanishing point in the night sky.
But will I get there, …before I die?
Nicolas Poussins' pastoral landscape
"Et In Arcadia Ego", 1640.
Copyright 2004 © Ronald W. Hull
Read War's End, the Novel