Rough Life
We live — but not on level ground,
We are sunlight clinging to the edge of a crumbling wall.
I remembered Grandmother’s voice,
She warned me once: “Boy, beware the fall.”
We leap —
and soon enough
this house of days
will crash upon us all.
We were mountains once —
and still we held,
Like millstones
bearing every crushing call.
In a blink, the starling flew —
and from the highlands, they all withdraw.
I suffer the market’s ache today,
Where souls are sold and bent to law.
She asked me,
“What are you doing here?”
“Growing fat in a pasture
meant for slaughter.”
Knives are sharpened, lambs grow sleek —
In the end,
the knife writes every fate.
Traps and snares on every path —
from the tavern’s door to the lover’s gate.
And when the final cup is drained,
They march us up
the gallows straight.
But look —
again, our morning reign begins!
The sun breaks through the long black night.
Grief has closed its weary eyes —
I’ve carried so much pain
to reach this light.
And now, today, the “King” is smiling,
Joyful in his lover’s gaze —
They meet beneath the sky
in a world remade
by morning’s blaze.
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