In Order To Be Sane Poem by David Welch

A quiet call born of wind,
the rustling needles sound,
a hard chair of stony set,
cooler than dirty ground.

A raven's throaty call is heard
and endless birdy chirps,
beyond that silence evermore,
so much better than work…

Below a shepherd's happy bark,
faint echoes made of words,
illusions broken instantly
by another of the world.

But frustrated I cannot be
'cause who am I to blame,
another who will seek the wild
in order to be sane.