Hanque O . . . - Reveberations

Here it is, the heavy yoke,
the uphill plod,
the horizon receding with each step.

Envy the ox, what does he know
of tomorrow?
He cannot think beyond the next step.

Pity the youth who plods beside,
he sees the roadside
stretch until it touches itself.

If he could outpace his thoughts,
pluck fresh ideas
like flowers along the wayside—

his lonesome trek is nearly silent,
his ears ring with emptiness.

Hanque O . . .

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