The BurdenA Poem by Tash HillThe burden is all things that are, it is sun and moon and cloud and star.The burden of the
soul weighs heavy
and takes its toll. It is lost and
it is found; it is silent, yet
makes sound. The burden
remains ever nameless, yet never
shall it be thought to be blameless. It is both sin
and sacrifice, the folding of
card and the rolling of dice.
The burden is
both heavy and weightless, it is all acts
courageous and spineless. It is “war in peace, and peace in war”, until devil
and angel both protest, “no more!”
The burden is razorblade
and pen, it is deeds of
terror and of Zen. It teaches and
learns and remembers and forgets, all of its
shames and all of its regrets.
The burden is written
word and song that is sung, it is the
stinging bee and the one it has stung. It is the
prisoner and his guard, the penniless
poet and plushest bard.
The burden is ice
and fire, it is the rod
spared child and his sire. It is the
tears that have been cried and the knots
that will be tied.
The burden is all
things that are, it is sun and
moon and cloud and star. It is the
guiding light and the burning map, the route of
escape and the deadliest trap.
The burden is I
and it is you, it is the many
and the few. It flies and
it falls, is caught and is free, never knowing
from what it must flee.
For the burden
of the soul is love, it is the blood
on the wings of the snow white dove, and the broken
twig of olive clasped in its beak. For when the
burden is lifted, it is the souls
turn to speak. © 2014 Tash HillAuthor's Note
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