Adam H @davidalexr2020

Nothing is gained by unwonted sorrowing. Like Adam, we must labour in back-breaking exasperation for what little the earth affords. It's foolish to think a state may be awarded by charity? Men build, dig in the muddy ground, toil to found the ancestral city, a permanent home.

It is the truth which cannot be spoken; which will blister the lips of he who utters it; which lodges in your soul, concealed, protected; which, if known, would end hope, vindicate your enemy, unleash inconsolable suffering- that truth is the one which is real and inescapable.

Their will is stronger; their certitude unquestioned; their devotion sacrificial. Mere things of this earth do not please. At long last, against all odds and impediments, they have discovered a new God who will burn them on his altar and use their ashes as incense for his glory.

What is man's law but injustice; what is life but interminable oppression. They fight all doubt, cram it deep within; go forth, determined, undaunted. They are unlike us pragmatic souls. They want action, a cross. They need to be crucified for the true faith, to feel the nails.

The true believer: summoned by another God-like substitute to reject temporal limitations, to scorn ordinary, trivial things; to seek pain, suffering, the martyr's scorching fire; to infuse their souls with meaning, certainty, animated life. They abandon all law and restraints.

Do you recall our rambles in the field, our playful chatter, our heartened humour? Do you remember when I looked into your speckled eyes, held your tender hands? How often we spoke of our growing affections, unbreakable bond; how we yielded at each moment to some newfound joy?

That first love, deliciously sweet, which brought me passion and sorrow; the first kiss of your crimson lips which ever after stayed with me like an enthralling dream; my heart, removed, graciously given to you, peeled to its core, cradled in your soft hands- a prelude to life.

The day has begun. Children run to the shore, slovenly-dressed, disheveled, crying bitterly. Bombs are falling-many, too many. It deafens their screams. They know the boats can take them away, liberate them. But none are coming. Only gentle waves ripple on a desolate shoreline.

I sit with my grandmother on the front porch, admiring the lavish greenness of the well-kept grass. She is reminiscing again, talking about grandpa happily tending the garden. It's been years, yet she still mourns pitifully for him. Memories can reopen scars that bleed afresh.

Stay with me. Mourn that the billowy breeze has passed, that transience-O, the unbearable transience of things-has claimed our hopes. Let us wipe each other's tears with the soft texture of memory. Time eats me. I've grown gaunt, too weak to piteously plea for another voyage.

Be silent, Horatio. Don't tell them what transpired here. The truth is often mangled even in the mouths of the well-meaning. I was only a man, bereft of heavenly understanding. Hold my cold, stiffening hand. When I'm dead, spread my congregated ashes to the dissipated winds.

I listened to you drone on senselessly about regretting your marriage, children. But if I fall, no son or daughter of mine stoops to help; when I rise, no ceremonious smile greets me with unfeigned gratitude; and when I yearn to love deeply, only a cold breeze blows in my face.

You rejected me then-perhaps for arguably good reasons, perhaps not. I'm done deciding the question. I rambled out on the lamplit streets, angry, confused. An incomprehensible vacancy overcame me. I remembered the footpath I used to come to you. I altered course, chose another.

The rage-filled wretch is at our gates. He furiously stamps, pounds- stammering his curses amid tear-dropping madness. He demands we come to him. He drained the last dregs of his kindly thoughts. Now he stands, convulsively condemning this life as he chooses to sacrifice his own.

We walk together- nervously, anxiously-amid the waves laving the shore. I look out to a far-distant horizon, where the sky and sea dissolve into each other. My heart throbs unpretentiously for your loving touch. I'm skilless in the craft. Only your hands can make my heart whole.

I hear the world's din diminish as day fades. I walk among untrodden paths to a secluded pond. The wind is resting in the trees, caught in a tender embrace. The lemon-shaped moon glimmers appealingly in the sky. No creature stirs. I forgot how sublime is the music of silence.

Father, how shall we endure? The day is dying, the nights are long. Passions stir and unloose pent-up raging fury. Men bemoan war but seek conflict. Preach peace but battle one another. Let us plant the flowers, father. Nourish them daily. They bloom with nature's mellow beauty.

Come to my table. Be not troubled by civil discord, societal unrest. There is peace to be found here and gracious welcome. I give you all I am, all I have. Grant forgiveness, swell your bosom with noble thoughts. Mitigate malice and wrath. Find here beauty, truth, and eternity.

Autumn has come. The bending boughs of the trees begin to drop their over-ladened leaves. The robin, redbreast, lights on a branch, revealing his motley colours. I walk amusedly amid the winnowing wind, lifting my hopes expectantly to the wished-for days of fruitful plenitude.

I walk alone on a grassy trail, the moon blazing overhead. It's a cold night. I hear only my footfall. Others departed for their evening rest. I cannot sleep. My thoughts still cling to you. Beloved, who would believe that the moonlight could make the trees gleam so beautifully?