The fields of tomorrow

The fields of tomorrow

I once sat with, a paper blank,
And I was filled of joy,
The paper and the wooden bank,
Were too, filled of joy.

Then after some heart wrenching days,
I sat again the same,
The paper bled in every phrase,
The bank was dull and lame.

A brush I took, when in my room,
I was joyous at heart,
My canvas filled with lively bloom,
It was a joyous art.

Yet Oh when in, a grayish mood,
My canvas turned to dusk,
My flowers dead, my trees were nude,
My floor a dirty husk.

And now I walk, my thoughts awake,
Beneath December sky,
I know I'm not, what I did make,
For I didn't yet die.

We speak of rain, of wind and sun,
Of today and morrow,
Yet we forget what passed and run,
Of joy and of sorrow.

Thus the value, of you and me,
Is never what we did,
But what we aim to do and be,
To allow and forbid.

As morning dew, as something new,
May the pain and sorrow,
Shape what's right, and show what's true,
In the fields of tomorrow.

© Ziad Dib Jreige