O ă d Ōnāi!

I worried that this one might be a bit too long, but it just kept growing, and I couldn't cut it down. Sorry. I also hope it's not too confusing. It's about the things left undone that we put off, and put off, and put off again, until, at last, it's too late to retrieve them. I don't believe I'm too late to resuccitate any of my particular failings, but I'm certainly guilty of negligence, as I'm sure everyone is, in one way or another.


O ă d Ōnāi!

O ă d Ōnāi! My knees are slack
and trembling. My heart,
it flutters under this attack,
a kite struck by the dart

and dropping from a height. If I
were blameless as a bird,
perhaps to plummet with a cry,
to perish, though unheard,

I would not, then, begrudge an end
so swift. But I, a thief,
must struggle simply to ascend
and look to find relief

from longing, vicious as a flame
that parts the cloth and flesh,
alike. I play it as a game,
but, soon, the staffs that thresh

the grain from off the splintered stalks
will reach me. To submit
a fruitless harvest, chaff and rocks,
cannot suffice to quit

the reapers from their rigid task
or turn their calloused feet
away. The only fruit they ask:
the yield of the wheat

that was implanted years ago;
that I cannot return.
And all the labor that I owe
will perish in the burn

and blaze, impartial consummate
of saint and sinner, both,
as, trembling, I must await
a final, fruitless growth

and hope that it can flourish, fair
in wealth. A thousand-fold
could never be enough. A prayer
to keep from growing old

betrays my lips. My knees are set
and holding, yet. To die,
and never to discharge my debt...
Forbear, O ă d Ōnāi!