The path of life is not “to live, to learn”;
Recall the wasted sacrifice of Time
When life was young. In childhood, tender age
Of gaiety, the scourge of knowledge’s past
Is that of burdened hearts and force-tamed minds—
In rôte and whispered scratchings of the pen.
It is this time, that now we lift the pen,
Regurgitating knowledge, school-time learnt,
That we believe that grades are to our minds
What music’s for the soul, then laughs old Time
At folly’s footstep laid. In brighter pasts
Would live the truth of caring, quiet age.
That bygone time where children felt the age
Was mild; that wisdom-knowledge breaks the pen…
To visit long-dead men in slurried pasts
Is nothing gained, and nothing will be learnt
If teaching’s done against young wills, for Time
Will take its toll on the unwilling mind.
Young lives numbed, killed, to fantasies of mind
Where thoughts go wild in fairies’ mystery age.
The sand in classes smoothly marks the time
Where hope lies in the burying of the pen.
To reject force-fed truths leaves one to learn
The way of time as cold winds hurry past.
In times that’ll never be, each stark life past
Would be the loss of innocence, a mind
Which was not whipped to reek of hard things learnt
Through lessons. Life, through each and every age,
Will wither under ink-stained, blunted pens
Which bleed on sheets, the blood which augurs Time.
And now, as limits draw too close, the time
Is nigh. For prayer’s force won’t keep this past
Of stunted thoughts and growth. My weary pen
Speaks through a poet’s music-versèd mind
Of gloried life-imagination. Age
Will come to me, and take each thing I learn.
To live to learn—the sacrilege of Time!
This muted age where joy is sadly past
Will never mind the searchings of my pen.