The wren\'s fragile bones
rot in winter\'s frosted field.
Its heart was broken
by bitter storms and blizzards.
O life is marred by
the suffering of precious,
little things! Mercy,
Beauty and Grace are so rare
in a hostile world.
If only Love, and its soft
caresses, would heal
and unite scattered fragments
of Being in Time.
I still search for answers to
burning questions, that
seem like, a lifetime\'s labour.
The philosopher\'s
stone is buried underground.