Nature struck us down. Man lifts us up.
But when man strikes us, and doubly so profits
from our dependence, he strikes us
by not lifting us. With those in the hills,
whose maize fields the sun grooms with its light,
and with those in the mountains, whose dawns
grip us on arising, (but for those man-soiled
boulders lodged in our way, prodigious
in their passive obstinacy, in their active vainglory,
these party misleaders) we would flow
as a single stream. With what cumulative force!
Not all the days before us can reverse
those intense seconds, those fear ridden hours
Inconsolable, long endured, pain
spurs us on. Flint your voice!
famished listener. Soon comes the time
to strike your anger
June 3, 2015
dharmapoems 