All things are wearisome,
more than one can express:
the eye is not satisfied with seeing
nor the ear filled with hearing...
the more the words
the more the emptiness.
--Qoheleth 1:8, 6:11
I want to sing of joy:
of babies grasping distant splendor,
the fullness of a friendly fight
enmeshing minds in common question,
to greet each day the new-born light
as letter from a loving sender,
my work relieved of all oppression
and taken as a toy.
But I have had too much:
too many stars have missed my reaching,
discussions left me in disgust
with words that lack enough precision
to introduce a lasting trust
in me or you or any teaching.
I greet the dawn with indecision
and I am out of touch.
So let me give you pain
and boredom as my one belief,
a melody that slips too slow,
from a tongue softly dying,
a life I have come to call 'De Trop'
to find in death relief,
in silence the success of crying
in losing all, my gain.
-- Mahlon H. Smith
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This poem is a revised edition
Mahlon H Smith
copyright © 2005
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