When we’re young, we might not know of death
Or even sorrow, till the circumstance,
That brings these to our viewing, struts on stage—
And when its scene is done, we then might find
Another and another take their turns.
There comes a time, in every life, at which
We’re sick at heart from all that we have seen—
The hurt, injustice, death and misery.
And some may bow to gods—or Fortune’s will,
But others, at their deaths, are hurting still.
So tell us then the cure for this disease—
This sickness of the heart that clouds the mind
And weakens will and body. Can we thrive
When robbed of meaning, living day to day,
Awaiting death—that hope for our release?
Or could it be that this is what is real—
That all the dreams of youth were merely dreams?
At dawn, we’re filled with hope; at sunset, dread.
Is there an in-between, in which to live
To do what needs be done—until we’re dead?
We might be sick in body and despair,
But later we might once again be well.
So also with the sickness of the heart—
We need to bear it till it goes away.
We walk, in darkness, towards the hope of day.
Without the darkness, would we know of light?
Without the hunger, would the food have worth?
Without what's cruel, would we feel what's kind?
We need our sorrows, like we need our joys.
From woe and weakness, let us grow in strength.
2016 September 18th, Sun, 7:44 pm Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York