Sunday, March 14, 2010


At first we’re innocent and know no harm,
As if protected by a holy charm,
But soon that spell inevitably dispels
Opening the way to countless private hells.

Now knowing injury and feeling hurt,
We turn from bliss, grow anxious and alert,
Taking our first steps down a treacherous path,
Arduous to retrace: its name is Wrath.

Once anger and resentment burn and glow
Within our hearts, we seek a hapless foe
On whom to lash back and retaliate
In kind, unkindly, till our pains abate.

And yet that cannot be: our pain abides,
For anger with itself always collides.