Must He Always Cry Himself to Sleep?

He dares not rise with the sun

Nor dream of retiring when it takes its rest.

From him the cock takes it cue for its first

Crow of the day, and the crickets are long

Weary of singing before his bed again feels his weight.

Ever moving, more for the demand than for the desire,

Though not alone on the road ending only when one’s number is called.

Purpose is lost and direction murdered by the maddening rush

Yet for all the hypertensions, El Dorado is still missing.

Who ever wonders what he’s after or knows to shout ‘Eureka’ when it is found?

Hope is becoming too costly for most to afford,

Yet without it, Aro will extend its boundaries.

Since time manages mortals’ lives strictly,

Of what use then is the seed of hope that has no potential of sprouting

And bearing fruits of fulfillment before our allotted share of the seconds runs out?

The budget runs into trillions, yet every kobo makes its demand in sweat,

Austerity’s icy blast has made a Greenland of everything within reach.

Woeful is Democracy’s failure, yet it’s eulogized as the way forward.

Who knows, maybe it would’ve fare better if it could run itself and not having

Machiavelli’s protégés holding its reins?

Is humanity a curse? Must he always cry himself to sleep?

Will God not rescue before the Styx is crossed?

Is His grace now to be contended for?

Is His favor now being balanced on the scales by weights of supplications?

The Carpenter truly offers hope and life.

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