Fog, descending, rests on burnt brown grass with roots still green. 

Shining droplets sparkle on the budding leaves of trees, and 

Peel a strange adhesive thing despairing from my soul. 

 

Oh, I can hear a restless, rootless whining in the gears. 

Waging endless bloody wars against immortal fears 

Leads my tattered, howling mind to contemplate retreat. 

 

But I have often thought before, and now I think again 

Arrested motion’s not the cure, I think, but rest in motion. 

The world is spinning still, and red-grey dawns still greet me daily, 

While heaven’s message, meteor-sent, shatters in the northern sky 

And sows seeds of serenity and peace that have to sprout 

One of these days, despite the haze, despite the dread and doubt. 

So run the race while it may be won. Make errors, but return. 

Pause, but do not cease. 

Pray, but do not release. 

The ‘ora et labora’ tells me that if God desired 

Dictatorship, he wouldn’t make us breathing, thinking, free.  

He wants to dance with you and me and lead us to discovery 

Of what we are: already and not yet.