Friday, 23rd April, 2010

When pain strikes
it is hard to think,
harder to care.
What does it matter
that children starve
and young men die,
day by day
blown to bits
without ever
knowing why?

When pain strikes,
it drives out dreams;
tomorrow
is an  impulse undone.
Clamped in the jaws
of demon dark,
what is the power
of a dawn?

When pain strikes,
 pain strikes.
There are no
ideals then;
no literature
or cultured arts;
just the wolf
that slinks and calls.
Only the anodyne
blossoms and blooms
when pain,
pain strikes.

When pain strikes
it is hard
to think;
we tilt and tremble
on the edge.
Will three swift fingers,
a stab in the dark,
deliver us,
 reeling,
to our rest?