If not I then who to stand,
For other men, when the castle gates are falling?
I could say wait! For whence another fit
To answer boldly to those calling
Sure will come! I could say this not my place,
These are not my kin, nor these my halls;
Still we could walk safely out from underneath these smoking,
Blackened ramparts. No oath spoken galls
My conscience: for no folk of mine are these!
High-speech was never my speech. The trouble and pain
Is not worth the enemies-making that is sure to follow!
Yet if not I, then no man is noble says my brain,
And all oaths of men are hollow. A man
Who does not do just what he can
To ruin, or the world’s red ending come
For right; he is not a man.
So because I can, I will stand,
Between this night, and the hope of day.
So remember me in darkness, Daughter!
When hope of victory, or glory, there is not a ray:
A man without rare skill or great goodness in me
Who laughs at heroes, and young men who think themselves brave;
I am the blood of those of little reach and no reaching say
Before, as Kings and Queens, I burn my pagan ship for the grave.
Yet great things are only done by good men
And power corrupts those great.
You cannot always be strong; Instead, Sweet Child, be brave!And if it is in you: do not be the one the one who waits!
A poem inspired, not necessarily by Oman, but my father's advice when it comes to doing the right thing, even when he's worried about me over here in Oman, fighting for some lost cause, and making myself friends;). He is ever the one other people turn to, when they need someone to be strong beyond words. I'm good at words, but in my father, I see what true strength means. And I'll never forget the day it was a mob-to one-odds, and he stood up for those he didn't even necessarily like or agree with, but only because it was the right thing to do. He had a girl dressed in a princess dress behind him, and all the boys were hiding inside, leaving it to that one "old man".
"When the kid is bigger than you, you're allowed a stick," my father always told me. "What about when there is more than one kid?" I asked my father. "Get a bigger stick," he told me.
...But when there was a whole sea of them, red faced and wanting to burn that house down, my father stood in the doorway, barring their entry, armed with just a stick. "So what do you do, when you can't possibly win?" I asked my father. "Go for the leader," he advised me of mobs. "The rest are usually cowards." "And if that doesn't work?" I wondered. "Act crazy," he told me simply with a shrug, prepared to fail, but not prepared to let stupid, angry, blind wrong pass him without a fight. "Crazy is scarier than a gun to your head sometimes." Those fighting words have as of yet, not let me down.
So with him for a father, is it no wonder, I can't just say nothing at times? Or let another do what I could?