All your thoughts and friendly smiles;
Like reptilian skins you've itched
And split but failed to shed;
Like a crowd of unborn babes
You thought you ought to have
Are these sorrows and injustices
Gathered round you with their stares.
They want naught but to know,
How could such wrongs fail to mar you so?
And until you give an answer,
They'll spoil your appetite for words
Of faith and songs of praise
And rejoicing for your friends.
That is how pain keeps the being within
And pain becomes the armor without
And pain becomes the soothing balm
That lessens the itch of wanting out.
Pain feels more real than any delight;
And it whispers vain hopes
In your ears at night,
"If you suffer the world's sorrows,
The world will then suffer yours."
When, oh, when will sorrow find its place:
The distasteful herb at the passover feast?
When, oh when will grief no longer act
As the signpost to the forks at every turn in your path?
When, oh, when will you no longer define
Yourself by these shadows that neither know your design
Nor your nature with divinity intertwined?
When? I know not but I know one day
All your skins will fall off and your freed lungs will fill
With the songs your heart has been yearning to trill.
Unrealized wishes will dissipate at that dawn
Which shows every contour of what lurked in the dark.
And unrobed, you'll not flinch at those blows not aimed at you
When you cease expecting from others what they cannot do.
Finally then love will saturate your being all throughout
And love will shed the skin for the soul to get out.