What is the heart,
if not a vessel of gift
for wind and rain
to pass like low hanging clouds
above the rocky terrain
of grins and tears
and broken longing?
What will you make of it
in this only life alone?
In the quiet of your bed,
civilization drives you mad
with overtones of war
and sickness of mind and body,
but go on we must:
your heart is pure;
this, you carry
both as staff and spear,
not to trample the dusty earth beneath you,
but to lift the watching child upon your shoulders
so that he may see
what he could never see alone.



Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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