Ever ceaseless the strife in the night--
And for what?
There is, so it seems, no goal in sight.
Far away, we sense the dawn of truth--
Yet, so near
If only we could grasp her mocking fruit.
And as each step we near her distant lure
In the mist,
Receding twice, she beckons evermore,
And throws before the hungry, muddled minds
Some scattered crumbs
Of priceless worth--they pass them by, so blind.
While from the dark she tries to lift
Our groping souls,
We, poor fools, ignore her sunlit gift.
Of all the measure of cosmic truth, behold,
Within our grasp,
One atom must we yet unfold.
While we grovel in the mire of mental sloth,
Gazing at the light--
We shall die, never knowing, like the moth.
We cannot keep astride her lowly pace,
We must wake,
Or be lost, and left behind--a forgotten race.
© 1997 by Pasqual S. Schievella