Purpose

He hunched beside the desk,

trying for art.

But then he heard the radio—

The drums and chants

and tunes from all across the world,

A thousand rays of sunshine,

a thousand days of bliss,

a whirlwind surge of breathless life-pulse

beating in his heart.

He stared beneath the sky

at bursting stars

and planned to write of Aquila.

But then he heard

the music from across the world—

A thousand urgent voices,

a thousand untold tales,

A hunger-stricken need to hear it,

ringing in his ears.

He wrote about the world

with flaming sight—

of sculptures, plays, and refugees.

And when he saw

a pan flash from across the world—

a thousand old traditions,

a thousand unknown arts—

an educator’s need to tell it

opened up his mouth.

He hunched beside the desk,

too old for art.

And then he heard the radio—

that busy noise,

The struggles all across the world,

a thousand changeless problems,

a thousand endless strifes,

A whirlwind surge of tired people,

looking.

At themselves

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