One soul in the crowd

I sing what was lost and dread what was won,
I walk in a battle fought over again,
My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;
Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,
They always beat on the same small stone.

W. B. Yeats, "What was lost".



Significative eye-looks, or figurative people in ugly colours, or any crap, sometimes I cannot care less. *-* Excuse a passing fase.

Many thanks to the good people, every single person, who have took their time to visit. The only valuable here.

_