BY DR. AGONSON
A moment’s glance from these eternal things—
I’ll pounder now the present world:
considering the smoke,
the burning flames
the death—
No breath!—
We pray it rains,
but speaking makes us choke.
It seems that all of Hell’s unfurled.
Where has he flown, the little bird who sings?
Yet I’ll not end upon this note,
for I should tell the whole.
Should we now fear
seasons.
Reasons
must now appear
to lift us from our hole.
These truths we only learn by rote.
Yet empty is a word
within the pain,
and I
do sigh
longing for rain,
wanting to hear the bird.
I say look up
not down,
else drown
within a cup.
Death’s sure;
no cure.
And pain’s the same:
no chance
to dance
around this flame.
Yet still there’s good withal,
for in moments
like these
one sees
how God foments
the good within the fall.
There was a little bird which sang
sweet melodies outside.
His voice has gone
away.
One day
in clearer dawn
I’ll pause within my stride:
his striking trill brings a sweet pang.
And here’s the point as best I know to say:
there’s always sorrow, always pain,
but through it all I know
that good will come
again.
For when
I look up from
this bitter world of woe
through thinning smoke I see a chain
of twinkling stars, and thus I learn to pray
Tale Told 