Oh, which wish whispered within the willow
would choke the ties that bind me to torment
in Lethean streams, where my fruits are sent
into the torrent of a pathless flow?
In innocence - reveal what's below
do scriptures, in some minds set permanent,
yet are such words the factors prominent
to the cleansing of that we do not know?
Or do our eyes not shed tears in blindness
but in revelation, for all is not
painted by the oil of loneliness?
Is Joy's foundation so supremely got
from satisfaction of the simple word
while rustlings of the leaves remain unheard?
© Cecil Field
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