What if actions rise up swaying And, unsure, outreach without base, With conceit so hungry, baying For the bloody chance to give chase On acclaim? The footprints one's paced On the sand eroding mutely Needn't overwrite sublime grace Resting soft beneath the fruit tree. They continue unallaying, As when children by a footrace Start spontaneously playing For their tiny glory. Come waste Or success we keep the same taste: Fame, and to be noticed truly For our strife, to find our own face Resting soft beneath the fruit tree. Growing from the sands, surveying, Some within, without; a sad case: Fears of stasis and of staying Hands and minds unlearned, a far place Distant from community's brace; Knowing ever so acutely That we seek mirages not space Resting soft beneath the fruit tree. When they wither will a dumb trace Still persisting resolutely Maybe find another someplace Resting soft beneath the fruit tree?
A place for my poems 