Than the best.
How simple the world would be,
If we, like birds building nests
Or animals, langorously, grazing under a tree,
Except the taste of new grass
Or the cheeping of contented fledglings.
But we create a world of terrors,
Where we should be building a universe of hope.
And yet the world is not so really.
Usually its just a peaceful pool
of similar daily chores and small treats.
Sometimes it’s a waterfall of joy and excitment
And wonder and completeness.
Very occasionally its a black torrent
of failure, and disaster and hopelessness
And then its a pool again.
But do we wake in the night,
And imagine the contented pool?
Do we wake breathless with joy
And imagine the waterfall?
No, we bathe in that black torrent,
The dark future that will, most infrequently
If we were to live,
Like the birds and the antelope,
With the joy of the moment,
The coffee and toast,
The laughter round the braai fire,
The simple pleasures of our daily chores,
How much less painful our lives would be.
It we woke in the night,
Imagining the waterfall
of success and hope and bright drops
of future achievements,
How joyful our lives would be.
Would the dark torrents,
Ever come again?
And if they did, could we magic them away.
With our placid and peaceful thoughts.