For what is a man? By Brian Nyoto

My pages turn whilst I ride the tide, 

Another face in the crowd, hence my time I bide, 

for what is a man without his guide? 

And for as long as my stride is wide,  

As well as cowardice, my source of pride, 

I lay in my chamber, never have tried  

To find the call of the winged boy inside, 

All the noise of the fellow men, bearing a deceitful hide, 

Of whom yield daggers and wounds on their side, 

A plane of battle and searching for their bride 

For what is a man without his guide?