Lament (2)
We came. We paused. We went. We had our say.
And whether night or day, it makes no sense:
Our toil receives no lasting recompense.
The arbit’ry division of the days
As hours, minutes, seconds; and the ways
In which these segments must be spent; and how
We should be happy and fulfilled; who bow
To, who revere; and where we are consigned
To at our death: all these make chains that bind
Us. We embrace these shackles, since the free
Must for themselves define what they must be:
What “happy” is, and what should make them sad,
And wherein dwells the good, and where the bad.
Night brings no rest unless we lose ourselves
Inside a dream-world where our psyche delves
Into those wishes unfulfilled, beyond
The grasp of nightmare’s reach, a pond
Beneath whose surface deep desire thrives
Without diminishing our thwarted lives;
A magic chalice where all beauty lives,
Which takes from no-one, ever – only gives
To all, and none must beg: its grace
Wells up to all, and all can find a place.
But dawn’s cold light reveals it full of lies.
Best not to dream when we must close our eyes.
