‘Is it Thy Decree?’




On the sea of yesterday’s doubts and sorrows

The unceasing ebb and flow of to-day’s widowed-hopes

Play eternal hide-and-seek.

Frail joys, flowering on fickle stems,

Have snapped afore the season of fruit.

Camouflaged desire stretch forth withered arms,

To embrace eluding equality

Of thought and word and deed.

Liberty has no lodging in adoring hearts

And has company with men who scorn and use Her ill.

Leaving the real worshipper pant and pine

Amidst a harvest of despair.

Yet, fancy creates out of illusions and shadows

Its dream-lit child-gods of freedom.

Is it Thy decree, O Master,

That Beggars should not be choosers

In the game of Life?

And that slaves should be everlasting slaves?