Time passes only to return once more
Like some forgotten stranger, eagerly embraced, only to be discarded yet again.
Grasp the moment like a drop of dew from heaven.
Seek out its source and quench your thirst
That others too may be replenished.
Noble is he who stays in the ruins
When others leave in search of fertile ground.
And noble is the lone fisherman,
Who casts his net in turbulent seas
While others sail to placid waters.
Mighty is the settler in desolate regions – mined quarries and dried up shores.
Mighty too is the traveller who passes
Through this wasteland
On his journey to another one.
Glorious is the yogi who left sublime retreats
For coarse and decadent environs.
Oh how glorious are the lovers of God,
Who never left humanity's abodes.
For these are the ones who live the word.
Their search is over because it never began – only as a by-product of Service.
How holy is that word;
And how perfect its enactment.
 
Sir Francis Bacon
 
​
© Richard Lawrence 2013