I once asked a sage;  “Where is the place

where man could rest content

among his peers and to a fair extent

let not his spirit bend?

Where is the place where peace of mind and love

together nestle somewhere high above

the level of the eye

and see therefrom

the whimpering, scampering throng

sandwiched between the walls of right and wrong,

not knowing why

with self-inflicted pain must he contend?

How should he join the tiring marathon

across life’s thoroughfares while woebegone

and far behind the trend?

Could he be just egged on

with words of care to forge ahead

in spite of his despair

and somehow find his feet regain

their erstwhile, stubborn stride,

his will restored of its inherent pride

while yet behind?

How could his wasted, broken spirit mend?

How could he reach his one and only goal

that seems to flee from his impatient soul?

Could time extend the limit that he might

But surely seek again

the triumph he once sought,

but yet couldn’t attain?

And how might he

undo his weakness

wear his strength once more

upon his naked will

and let his spirit flow,

his soul so free that he might soon

the steeper hills ascend?

The sage replied

with words that pierced

my bending ears:

“The soils of Time are drenched

in blood and tears;

ravaged spirits

do not easily mend;

life does teeter

on the brink of death;

Man must forge ahead

with bated breath;

many dreams could crumble;

soundest minds could lose

direction still;

certain circumstances

breach the armored will;

the cautious stumble;

genius and good fortune

might not blend.”

And so be it:

The sage’s words

were absolutely plain,

much like the purity

of sifted grain.