I remember reading this poem, a very long-long time ago. I was a lot younger then than I am younger now. But my senses picked the lines, and fed them into my soul. It was neither celebration nor loss, I found tranquility and related to it. My crippled childhood perception like the shadow of Hamlet ghost found a meaning to survive at thoughts. Its through words, I hink, I find my way in this labyrinth that I love-to-hate and hate-to-love.

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above:
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love:
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behindIn balance with this life, this death.