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Alistair Aisgill



It seems to me the sun shines on all men

Regardless of their worth in worldly terms.

The rain and all the other weathers then

Are just as disregarding in their turns.


If seasons do not notice who we are

Does life itself its bounteousness mete out

Fairly and without concern or care?

No, for joyous then would be my shout.


Many are they who, with little effort other

Than to do their daily work, achieve success;

While others, no less dutiful, seem doomed

To failure - even though they strived no less. 


The wealth, the cars, the holidays combined

Are often used by those more fortunate

To set the standard and callously remind

The poor that they are profligate.


The employed man, busily oblivious to

Other conscientious men left on the shelf

May one day find the things he now can do

Are passed to someone other than himself.




Alastair Aisgill © 2008

First published in Echoes from an Inkwell (Anchor Books, 1991).

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