Why should we fret when fate has cast our lives
And measures out our mirth and misery?
Hope’s smile is often but a thin disguise
That beckons toward a forgone destiny.
And time is oft the piper marching on,
Each soul entranced by some discordant tune,
And yesterday’s tomorrow come and gone—
The brightest star at dawning meets its doom.
Yet with uncertainty, whence springs fond hope
To guide the heart and hand of broken men?
What drags the sluggard to his humble work,
Or bids the moiler fortune to contend?
What beacon burns within a wretched life
That drives it onward through relentless strife?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.