Simple
There’s a tiny, small ant that climbs the tree,
Straight up and without fear.
He never looks back or needs to be
Reassured that his way is clear.
He’s a plan there in his little brain,
A job he has to do.
No glory or love has he to gain,
Only to make his way through.
Why can’t I be more like the ant,
Unencumbered, except for my load?
And carry on, and carry on, straightway, posthaste,
Never minding the way things bode?
That laborious ant has a thing on me,
He’s freer in his wee, wee brain,
Than it seems to me I’ll ever be,
Tethered in my own tight chains.
The ant has the good sense not to fret,
The ant has no wants or love,
The blessed little ant has no regret,
Just an aim in the tree above.
And then I’m struck, square in my face,
With a stark, harsh truth I forgot,
I am like the ant, climbing to a goal,
But heaven’s where “X” marks the spot.
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Topic: Simple (Read 334 times)