The Miserables

Look — at all the lonely people,
toiling the fields for perhaps tomorrow;
to slaves the fires and arts are foreign,
their tears for flat and lifeless reasons.

Look — at all the lonely people,
fighting for perhaps fabricated glories;
uneasily alien are the distant miserables,
their tears are none but bloody flurries.

Look — at all those discarded corses,
who fought for perhaps noble frills,
or for our lives with remorseless remorse;
their tears gave life to lifeless hills.

Look — at our epicurean lives,
yet we cherish not love nor beauty;
unkind we are — our hearts we rive,
and tears we shed for our own stupidity.

When we forget the grandeur of time,
or forsake the world beyond our hive;
be trapped we shall in empty pleasantries,
trapped we are in our moonless miseries.

Yet listen, you all — slave or master,
a brave heart shall the heavens conquer;
succumb not to boredom’s torture,
still — be driven not by boredom’s irk.

Published in: on 27/04/2018 at 2:03 AM  Leave a Comment