Defeat, and the Defeatless Defeat

Seeking the meaning of life’s fearless complexities,
if blood should rise in a throat of blue,
if a hesitant mind, bound by the limits of experience,
surrenders in battle—
then yield the world’s essence at the highest rate of interest,
pay dearly into the treasury of life.
 
See how the splendid hour wastes away,
fades into dishonor, dissolves into nothingness—
and from each one, take it far away,
make of it the offering of solitude,
numbered among the neglected,
the impoverished of heart.
 
If life be accepted as a war,
then in every defeat, in every futility,
when dazzlement of modern society turns away,
the vanquished in silence shall stand victorious.
 
Would it not be better,
instead of drowning some innocent soul
in the isolation of thought,
to let oneself be drowned in the party of the defeated,
or in the revolutionless, self-absorbed void?
 
All falsehood, all arrogance shall be stripped,
and solitude shall render you selfless;
yet in drinking the poison of honesty,
you too must join the ranks of the defeated.
 
The victors, with heads held high—
this is no truth at all.
For the household of defeat,
unyielding, eternal, shall endure;
and it will give the mind
its perilous burden.
 
From the tangled knot of life’s complexities,
through the river’s path,
purity descends;
and with it comes venom,
rising from the throat,
never to be expelled.
 
Defeatless defeat,
world without end.