Contemplation

Written during Lent.

I walk upon a grey city's grey streets
And wonder if there are any still pure.
For all the faces of the men one meets
Hold a shadow shaped of sin and fear.
The land is twisted and broken and bent
That even the city herself sheds a tear,
There is a shame in seeing where Man went
Along the ruined path he chose to tread.
He sells himself for borrowed money lent
And buys with it a moldy rind of bread,
All good things given him, he does but burn,
Who breaks the glass and takes only the lead,
Who bids that turning change should ever turn,
Who builds anew the tower to the sky,
And emulates the Fool who will not learn
That all deeds done by men are doomed to die.
For when the days were young, Man plucked the fruit
And bitten it, the first triumphant cry
Was turned to naught and stunted at the shoot
And ever since the World sighs for an end
From sin's machines of the smoke and brute
That run along the twisted roads that bend,
And running after, those who deal in sin.
But there is another way to walk, my friend,
Far from the wickedness of all Man's din
Is not far, a house of incense and hymn
The doorway opens, shall we pass within?