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A short step, almost a sigh,
my soul dances in shadows of the wind,
lightly rising, a sombre echo,
I wage a thousand battles in torment.
I fight against myself, brave
the fierce enemy, wounded,
who in silent nights screams and feels
the lost echoes of a life.
I know well the easy cry,
it whispers in the wind my fragor,
fear peeps out, fresh and subtle,
and tinges my eternal clamour with grey.
But in every struggle, in every step
a faint light is born in the mist,
and though the battle at times sears me,
in the whisper, hope is assumed.
At a short pace, almost a sigh,
I face my shadows, I wear out fate,
and though the breeze that turns is scarce,
I fight on, deep down, divine.
I like the way this poem juggles words creating a lively rhythm.