Travails and toil, the daily quota grinds
In an endless dust bowl of existence,
Where the mean path walked so bitterly winds
Through baleful vagaries of evil chance.
Confusion contends, whilst from every side
Answers and lies seem to hold equal weight:
The worse – acclaimed for being wise -
Decide from towers of power their betters’ fate.
Despair now rules this melancholic plane;
Few choose to paint the sun or sit by trees:
We award wealth and praise to the insane
And ignore whispered truths upon the breeze.
And yet our hearts ring out with purity;
And listening to them will set us free.
May 2009
A sonnet that begins with a dismal view of life (not mine!). Painting the sun = eyes fixed on spirituality, trees are also meant to be spiritual; the final lines say that listening to our hearts will free us.
