Why would worms that writhe and twitch
beneath the burning noonday sun
in wake of rain from whetted pitch,
forsaken in a Stony ditch,
or asphalt road, whichever's which,
refuse the gift of legs to run?
Why would the lowly virmin stay
in reach of deadly snaken sting
betwixt the crumbling walls of clay,
to run at night and sleep in day,
To be the cat and falcons prey,
If offered feldspar feather'd wings?
Why would a man, a son of dust
aware of life beyond the grave
in crumbling gold or paper trust
in brandished swords whose mettle rusts
and gift his corpse to earthen crust
if bended knee his sould could save?
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Comments2
Really beautifully done piece of poetry.... I'd flunk the last question though but that doesn't change the artistry.....
Some in natures garden might justly say that the dust part of man is the best part.
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