Life contains within itself a strange lack of perspicuity;
We are all strangers by default,
But become sworn enemies by contagion-
Like unknown varieties of some strange new weed,
Considered better left unidentified, and at a distance,
But thought rancorous and deep seated, if found closer:
Something to be eradicated at the root,
Our grief only a minor wind, outside the tempest;
For all our souls are just holes,
That we never knew hope of filling.
Jan.3 2010
lovely pat souls with holes maybe thats to let the winds blow thru and take away all the build up of things not meant to be
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I do like this poem, the second line is profoundly true. We'd do well to remember it. Very good.