Passion is the language used
When three must stay three hundred at the pass,
When out of stone Moses must be freed,
And lame legs score a cup-crowned goal.
But passion stays
For Leander in the long-repeated troth for Hero,
For landing on a lonely longsought moon,
And keeping sanity through endless Auschwitz ages.
Passion it is
That goads the sneering gladiators to their fight,
That bursts the throats of prisoners set free,
That keeps awake the seeker of an equation
Passion appears
In every gleaming buttercup and snowflake,
In every swallow breasting a wild west wind,
In every hand searching for another.
Passion it was, beyond all these
That made one speak of love to hate
And bleed on a cruel tree in search of truth
And then shine forth, leading the last lost home.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem