My soul is a watch tower

waiting upon a lofty mountain

Closer to the stars than the green of a norwegian sky

I want to be radical

but a soul made of stone is only good if it has arrows and is not in favor of being kind

A fortified tower can stand to protect a few watchmen—

If they are not yearning

But who can tell them not to jump over the edge when it suits them best

It is their pursuit, their nature, their plight.

They eagerly wait for heroism

anticipating the rising morning

though they silently wish they might prove their boldness in this one last act of night.