The Beauty Of This World
The beauty of this world will stay, however man might see it,
He can't remove it, think it away, by no means can he flee it,
Whatever he may wish or do, however hard he tried,
Forever will the beauty last, it cannot be destroyed.
After a storm has ended, the sun with power and light,
The sober eye bedazzling, will shed its golden light.
A new beginning where before all noble dreams seemed lost,
And liberation comes our way, when it is needed most.
For every broken spirit another one is mended,
When peace spreads through the battered land, another war is ended.
A helping hand, a friendly smile during a time of sorrow,
All grief does disappear since hope lies in the sweet tomorrow.
Heroic deeds of men unknown were not performed in vain,
Adding more beauty to this world, forever to remain,
Telling in song and poetry the countless, ancient stories,
With epitaphs of bravery and unforgotten glories.
In every beating heart a hidden treasure lies,
For every one whose life is o'er, a newborn baby cries.
The beauty of this world lives on, nothing can mar its path,
The ugliness of death itself cannot put it to death! |
Her Doll, The Clown A new day dawning, air raids ceasing, peace over the
land at last,
Towering ruins in various shapes on battered ground their shadows cast,
Bizarre, like surrealistic works of artists from another time,
Whose minds in keen, advancing quest the ladder to their goals did climb.
Manifestation of their visions, created not by their own hands,
But the powerful decisions of leading men in other lands.
Dreadful destruction on the ground, a wail of sorrow in the air,
Enormous craters all around, like gaping wounds in need of
A whimpering sound, an echo faint, a sudden movement in the rubble,
Sobbing, a little girl emerges, uttering words in mindless babble.
through the debris in searching mode she stumbles with trembling limbs,
Climbing about in frantic haste, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Of that so dearly beloved face, where has her mother gone?
Where is her room, where are her toys, why is she all alone?
Innocent victim of it's time, caught in the grinding mills of war,
Innocence spoiled, without a chance, tainted forevermore.
Then with a sigh of great relief the anxious child stoops down,
Amidst the rummage it has found its favorite doll, the clown.
With his perpetual, radiant smile, displaying sweet repose,
He comforteth the little girl, who kisses his bright red nose! |
