Now the trees are bent in pain,
Is there any point in dying?
Is there meaning in the rain?
We
who stumble on the mountain,
Climbing
through a darkened wood,Search to find the hidden fountain
Singing gaily of the good.
In
the trees on either side
Laughing
creatures glibly call:“Nothing, nothing,” something cried,
“Nothing, never, not at all.”
Distant
on a troubled plain
Many
people go their way;“Nothing,” comes the voice again,
“Leave us,” other people say.
On
the snowline stop and pause,
Think
of what we leave behind:Feather beds and human laws,
Braggarts talking to the blind.
Turn
your face to where the sky
Leaps
out of the snow and rock;Abstract concepts rushing by
Denounce the hands upon the clock.
Somewhere
after many miles,
Where
the fountain washes sand,Hides the valley of the smiles,
Simple as a waving hand.
Search
on fellow to the end,
Quests
like this are never done;Freezing hail must be our friend,
Hope, the hidden, paltry sun.
====================
© July 1980