Now you've hit me, and I hit you back.
What's left for us but retreat for good?
Why should I care who launched the first attack,
Or keep recalling how at last I stood -
Or stooped - and gave up on both war and peace,
And would not fight you up although I could,
Not wanting even for your blows to cease
And end it all? The thought of hurting you.
To feel my fist leap leap out to strike your face
Again and and see your eyes contract in pain
And watch you fall, is more than I can take.
For all my righteous anger I'm ashamed:
You struck the first one and the last,
How do absolve myself of what has passed?
Stella Trevin.
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