Now the trees are bent in pain,
Is there any point in dying?
Is there meaning in the rain?
We who stumble on the mountain,Climbing through a darkened wood,
Search to find the hidden fountain
Singing gaily of the good.
In the trees on either sideLaughing creatures glibly call:
“Nothing, nothing,” something cried,
“Nothing, never, not at all.”
Distant on a troubled plainMany people go their way;
“Nothing,” comes the voice again,
“Leave us,” other people say.
On the snowline stop and pause,Think of what we leave behind:
Feather beds and human laws,
Braggarts talking to the blind.
Turn your face to where the skyLeaps out of the snow and rock;
Abstract concepts rushing by
Denounce the hands upon the clock.
Somewhere after many miles,Where the fountain washes sand,
Hides the valley of the smiles,
Simple as a waving hand.
Search on fellow to the end,Quests like this are never done;
Freezing hail must be our friend,
Hope, the hidden, paltry sun.
====================© July 1980