It is the fate of being lame,
Without a brush of ink and paint.
By force, I crush my heart’s desire,
By will, I claim I will survive.
At night I’ll crawl defeated from this fire
To sleep, would not my heart
From battle’s scars.

October 1985

To Fly
I must agree
Is standing still
Thus Life
Would not.
We fly so far
Until…

Do not tell me what I am;

Who am I, whom I know.

That which I like-

Is our world,

That which I am –

Is still beyond me.

If I could only be useful

I would find my place.

Orna 1984