Though
a thing of mist your greatest behest –
A more
inspired life, a more meaningful dish
The
questing search outweighed the finding –
Where’re
the heart its own provender owning
Took
life for its own and therein missed the beat
The
light that won, the dark that gave upon itself
The
thing to have, the counting-fall, the lonely dip
But
in truth – a gift which could not be given
And,
at the door, at last, an oil which could not be shared
Except
he build the house they labour in vain that build it
As
a song bird will not fit in water, or a fish in air
The
soul’s lovely things, which can be bought or sold,
Have,
in truth, no affinity with life’s essential part;
However
hard the mind might try and visions fill its eye
It
takes blood to engage the heart; pain to anything real!
As
the sword from the stone, as the sting from the honey
Full
far the opening of mysteries and at last the unveiling
Through
a night bright with stars and a white sickle moon
Life’s
scythe reaping – sweeping the old away for new
And
in Light’s heart, love, for every star that went with him
*
No comments:
Post a Comment