Thursday, February 04, 2016


On the great scions of wisdom
That slowly grows about us
We reach for the low hanging fruit
But high upon its oldest boughs
Are the sweetest prizes
A sparse crop of harsh fruits
Slow to grow and yield
They ripen all too leisurely
Yet of what I have picked
Or smelt of its perfumed tang
And flavoured on its bitter flesh
I learn now without prejudice
We may only eat such bitter fruit
If we can digest its nourishment
That you do not yet pluck insight
Draw it down to purge away madness
Then this I will take it as a good sign
You have not yet understood
And I would not need explain
This dark veil of hope we name not
Is best left upon the tree of life