The lashing rain ravages hill and plain,
It knoweth not virtue and sin;
It brings both joy and pain,
It trudges the thin line 'twixt virtue and sin.
Autumn disrobes Nature of its varied hues,
That Spring so blithely distributed;
Autumn hath no other role to choose,
Than shred what beauty Spring contributed.
The summer breeze is salubrious,
It knoweth not the pleasure it endows;
Winter wind is too lugubrious,
It hath no panes on its windows.
Not like Nature is the human heart,
It likes not broken be, but breaks itself;
It doth both pain and pleasure impart,
It is the monarch unto itself.
The catch is to set the bridle,
Harness the tempestuous thoughts;
Alas! ne'er doth the thing stay idle,
Nor knoweth the dolour it wroughts.
Fickle is this beating thing, very fickle,
Active and idle at the same time:
At times the proverbial scythe, at times the humble sickle,
Sometimes prosaic, sometimes brimming with rhyme.
While carefully tending to my own heart,
As Spring tends to the languid landscape;
I wilfully broke my son's little heart,
E'en as Winter shatters Summer's escape.
Not like the faces of Nature is the Human Heart,
Never was, nor never will be;
In impetuosity its own path doth it chart,
A design that e'en the owner can ne'er see.
A mistake that ne'er was committed
But imagined to have been committed;
Mired in the passion of it, I omitted
The vision to discount a sin he ne'er committed.
I spoke a word and broke his heart,
He shed a tear and broke my heart;
The word and the teardrop both played a part,
The truth: I broke his heart.
The spoken word is engraved in memory,
Like the face of Time on the ageless mountain;
Its pain is cast like iron in the memory
Of the innocent heart whence truth springs like a fountain.
The tear ran like a line of rainwater on a verdant lane
Down his beautiful cheek, his clear eyes all gone misty and red;
His cheerful face was filled with pain
Not e'en Mozart's Symphony could put him to bed.
I did not lie, he said through the wimper of his hurt,
But he said not that he deserved to be pained;
What sin it is to be thoughtless and curt!
I waited as his anguish waned.
As he rested his face against my chest,
Having forgiven me my mindless sin;
I let my heart wail in its cavity like a pest.
Repenting both the sinner and the sin.