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?
rcs.
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.)