The brutality of reality
No comfort, I am afraid, while penetrating reality at least might secure some detachment from its worst aspects…
Going down the field of roses,
all I find is tears of bleeding hearts
of thorns, that have got stuck therein,
and wounds of hearts will never heal
but eventually fade out in languishment,
since it is only human to tire of exertions.
The cruelty of life is the supreme remorselessness,
for there is no placation of reality
that just keeps running people over,
resulting only in the protest of infinity
of the so unjustly suffering individual,
whose one and only question to the godhead,
”Why me?” invariably will be unanswered.
They say that Job was finally rewarded
by the restoration of his family,
but that is as convincing
as an artificial happy end
to a superficial movie.
The reality is always there
in inescapable brutality
of life and death and ruthless interruption
of all love and harmony and happiness,
while love is no more than a brief relief
of just a temporary passing moment.
Well written if a little sombre. True great love can transmute into great pain.