The Sage Sings of His Many Aches

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
The problem of pain is quite simple
It's that it's not a problem at all
But that makes it more like a pimple
Or an issue we'd certainly call
Complex, since it's not what it seems
To pop it just provides some relief
While what is beneath then still teems
And takes your peace like a thief
Which makes it somewhat of an onion
Making use of it makes many tears
Is not pain also the pinion
Which turns the machine of all fears?
These images are not at all helpful
Nor are they intended to be
Getting your head around it is doubtful
But getting around it is free;
For each pain is an excuse to remember
The flaws of one's own estate
To turn 'round the accusing finger
To consider the hour is late;
It melts like the frost on a window
When the sun's rays do finally enthrall
The problem of pain is quite simple:
It's that it's not a problem at all.
a postscript is here written:
Apologies to the Don.

1 comment:

  1. The sage sings and does not complain of his many aches for his pains cannot compare with the crown that will be given him at the last day.


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