He Is


Why is it that when my dreams shatter,
A few bitter tears wash away
The ashes, the dust into the emptiness
Of Oblivion . . .
But when the broken dream is yours,
A deluge of my tears
Still fails to alleviate
The agony in my heart?

Why is it that when my pride
Is woundedwhen I must kneel
To beg; when I am humbled
My heart is bruised and sore . . .
But when your pride is smitten
By so much as a thorn,
It is as if my heart
Is set afire?

Why is it that when I fail,
When my toil is in vain
And success slips away from my grasp,
My heart is clouded in disappointment . . .
Yet when you gain an atom less
Than what you sought,
The darkness of disappointment
Is as the blackest night?

Why is it that when fickle Luck
At some moment, smiles at me
And good fortune comes my way,
A brilliant hue colors my heart . . .
But when Luck gazes upon you,
And the good fortune is yours,
It is as if my heart is draped
In a thousand rainbows?

Why is it that your dreams,
Your sorrows, your pride, your joys,
Your success or failure, your gain or loss,
Means more to me than my own?
Why is it that my heart is bound
To laugh or weep, to want, to long,
To feel with you? Why so . . .
When I am, and shall forever be
A stranger to you, and you to me?

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