Our Better Angels
Don't meadows soften the uneven routes?
Aren't wavy seas engulfed by endless shores?
Don't rugged trees have within them sweet fruits?
Doesn't truth shield the cores of mores?
Stumbling blocks could be used as stepping stones.
Thorny paths can turn into floral beds.
My inner shrine has secret sacred zones.
To till my soil of soul, I feel no threats.
Sunbeams are spread over the winter ice.
Monsoons amalgamate with moist rainbows.
Though flesh is weak, isn't spirit suffice?
Doesn't each soul have silent volcanoes?
Pearls of optimism are splendidly spread.
Picking them, with faith, I must go ahead.
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