In the heart of petrifying mists, those sleep-inducing billows
of routine, of form, of dead wishes and the malaise
of expecting no more, and no less-
In the poppy field years of seduction by peace,
when a man can be wooed by his comfortable bed,
can be bribed out of his treasure for a rest-
I beseech thee: on your feet!
We who are still young should not falter in assent
to the rhythms which would lull us to stagnation;
those proven steps to greatness which have earned us our reprieves
shall not own us, shall not be our road to death.
Be not the shimmering schools who rise to meet
a handful of breadcrumbs with the setting sun,
those tired masses who’ve been conditioned to take
each comfort as a right and proof of merit.
On your feet, comrades! Do not be caught unawares,
while the loveliness of a little graces your day,
that there are momentous distractions which come dressed as frivolity,
as one more trial you haven’t time to face,
but which are the only way to stay alive.
Your schedule is all your imagination,
and pleasure in the wild is better found-
on your feet, brave people, on your feet!