Thursday, May 25, 2006


What lives in the shadow of power
is mine, is yours, is free.
What moves the heart each hour
conveys no sense of strength or power to see--

how else could weak men praise
this vale of bitter flowers?

What creeps through the shadows slowly
cowers in the dappled light;
dawn's break shows all things truly,
confirms what all have taught:

the light that feeds the flower
will tower high above
and shadow men's poor power!

Why else should strong men curse
their bitter loss this hour?

4th draft: 05/25/06
©1980 Ronald C. Southern

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Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)