Pride Poem by michael john jackson
Pride
The proud of themselves
Make sorrows sad,
Like dust that falls on snow.
The cold beneath the frozen crust,
Can neither melt nor grow.
Like mountain peaks,
Wreathed in ice,
And cut away in clouds.
Too lofty now
To see beneath,
The ever present shroud.
Layer on layer the bedrock grows,
Each tier shed on pride,
Until the base fades to a peak,
Then nothing, far or wide.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/9/2024 3:33:41 PM # 1.0.0.1119
