THE WAY AHEAD
What is it, say, that yet may come to be,
That’s waiting to unfold and lie revealed,
The bud, the map of our futurity,
The document that waits to be unsealed?
Could we but peek into the seeds of time
And glimpse in microcosm all they’ll yield,
A crop that may be dismal or sublime,
We might find out if humans can be healed.
Our history so far casts that in doubt:
For all we may construe that we’ve advanced,
We’re more like a disease or killing drought
To fellow species spoiled and unenhanced.
The health we hope for, which could make us whole,
Is kindly fellowship that saves the soul.