Slithering in slime of sloe,
Filled with dreams no more hopes,
With all the love that brings me hate,
With all the laughs that bring me tears,
and your hand in mine that brings me fear.

I will be true but I will lie,
I will be brave but I will cry,
I will be strong but I will grow weary,
I will live but I will die,
I’ll hold on to joy who brings me pain.

© George Gitau (his blog)