The war I wage with words is endless, beautiful and cursed.
The ink, the letter, syllables--they express but they confine.
Nevertheless I break the rules; nevertheless I am restrained.
What then will be wrought?
Will it be beauty, or remain
Nothing more than words?
postscript
For day 2 of This time, the jabjong, which is a Korean sijo combined with the haiku. From a quote by Henri Matisse: "Much of the beauty that arises in art comes from the struggle the artist wages with his limited medium." And that is certainly true of all forms of art. (Especially when you pick one constrained by syllables. Ahem.)