What is hushing you after all?
You clench your hands, at one more go
To tightly grip the rugged hoe
And start to raise it although
It feels like raising a stone bow?
You take it up and make it drop
Onto the one and only spot
where, for one more day of yours,
you’ll plant survival in the form
of an onion?
You even kneel, on duty call,
And put the bulb of bio-logic law
deep down the soil of your soul
and then yourself begins to explode,
as if you couldn’t but recall
that you have always wished to grow
an evening primrose?
Who’s talked you into such a goal,
other than paradise, on earth or not,
during the heyday of no war,
crusade, plague, or other cause
To conform and blame for
wishing for nothing more?
How can you not despise the thought
That you are actually playing the role,
Although you recognize the plot
Of the directors weaving the cloak
Of so-called modern norms,
that You know are supposed
to hide their need for others to live on,
for their fear of death et all?
How can you just pretend to ignore
what has been tried and has been taught,
Throughout the history of this world
and everybody knows?
Think you are not to regret at all
that you have faith in faith more
than in the fate of your course,
thus letting human mistletoes
suck up the marrow of the oaks
So, what is hushing you after all,
before the eyes of every God,
Materialistic or not,
but still accepted at all cost,
In the era of no paradise?
Is it its gradually being lost
from the very spirit of yours,
although You deeply know that what
will, in the end, hurt you the most
Is not your being the prey of all,
But an expert in the onion growth
Unable to dream of a rose?