Song for this softly-sweeping sorrow…

one must arise
above all this shit,
keep growing…
destiny is only a whore if we make her
so.
let’s light lights
let’s suffer in the grand style,–
toothpick in mouth, grinning.
we can do it.
we were born strong and we will die
strong.
the manner of our living
like ocean liners in the fog…
thorns on roses…
blase boys trotting the parks in swim suits…
it has been very
good.
our bones
like stems into the sky
will forever cry
victory.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1971
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: