Dreams Poem by Artchil Daug

Terrible, vile, and ruthless ambition
devouring a man's soul with such control,
mighty indeed in right and attention
doubting visions that blind thy dismal soul;

Many are those who attempt such fervor
when wicked failures must hide its presence;
the heart may endure the thirst for splendor,
the dagger of grandeur sought not moments;

But none doth rise without hands that falter
that distinct desire to conquer a life,
full of pain and hunger for character,
full of astonishment, distrust, and strife;

The fiery edge of a knife so benign,
have altered thy stars that were oh so fine.