Churchill in Paris

Always in a hurry, that strident gait,
His step and his grim determination,
Concealing both his passion and his fate.
The nemesis of his kind and station.
It was a face cast in adversity.
Dubious of the clamour to appease.
Born with such discipline and certainty,
To rid a nation of its great unease.
Yet those eyes find no solace, only tears
That weep for old mistakes, a face that speaks
To the crushing weight he bore and the fear
Of failure, his great burden which he keeps
Well hidden; deep in that thundering stare,
Are old demons he knows he cannot share.

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