THE
STOIC
The
window open, I grant autumn passage -
The
inexpressible, that as of old
And
still the same. My one desire, all told,
Is
this: to always love its message.
This
life held little to be won in store.
It
does not matter now. Defence is vain
If
one considers all the world-old pain
Of
countless billions who have gone before.
Youth
is all restlessness and a bemused
Great
yearning to have loved ones time can’t best –
And
loneliness a source of loss, a curse.
All
that is past, and life is almost used.
In
solitude the heart can now find rest.
And
then: one’s life could well have been much worse.
No comments:
Post a Comment