The Lover And The Proudful Lady Poem by isaac gracie

When the view of your love is reviewed by distance
And your place at the altar displaced by time;
When love’s woods echo with plaintive insistence
Yet your trees still topple, all in line.

When wind blows rain, raining blows from careless skies,
And your love kneels not for love’s blessing;
When the warmth of Pride warms the fire in her eyes,
At her open church, its cold sins confessing.

So! Loves fresh-faced victim has forgot
That fault’rid and flawless - his love is not.

So the forest of your love lies empty, fallen,
Each felled tree a memory severed into mud;
Yet she towers - tall - in a glade untrodden,
You the withered weed - she the blossoming bud.

So blossomed she - proud tree amidst bleak waste,
Where you peer over ravage behind wrought hands;
And though she, the altar left, without a trace,
You - shrouded by her tree’s shadow - alone must stand.

And she will prideful say:

“Put down your axe, You are no headsman – boy!
In fact
See! My tree it grows; while your waste does only flies,
attract.”


Stranger, your problems are not strange to me,
I bore witness to the growth of a selfsame tree,
You must tear free from binding roots and realise,
life cannot be lived lost in the bonds of a barren mind,
Take my hand, and hope, it may you freedom, lend.

And say with me now -

“Life is many days: this too shall end”