When I was but a sprouting seed,
My elders spoke to me
About my spiteful tendency
For selfishness and greed
They viewed all life as darkness, grim,
And blindly inching on—
Forgetful of when they were young
Soft orbs above the lawn,
Before the earth’s great gusts of gale,
Or Gods’ limbs swinging free,
Had struck them on their precious crowns,
Which burst like white-light seas
After that day they soon believed
A savior from the skies
Would pluck them and few others up
To always please his eyes
And beautiful though this did seem,
Sad thoughts perturbed my brain,
For countless stalks surround my own,
Many slim, with fairer manes,
Who’d never had the benefit
Of losing all their pep,
And, if this savior came for me,
Would fall beneath his step
So I’ll live on just loving and
Not thinking of such a day,
For if it comes, I’d best remain
To pray for those in the way
No comments:
Post a Comment