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.