Go strain against the enwrapping snare
and curse the silken, delicate bands
that tighter wind the more you strain.
Once you were free as bird in air,
now you are captive; see your hands
are torn and bleeding-even your brain
wearies at last and begs release.
How easy now it would be to choose,
now when the lungs gasp out for breath,
among three ways that lead to peace:
The first, to win, the second, to lose,
and the third way, which is death.