It's Friday night, work's days complete.
But years inform each week's retreat.
Youth 'gives' five days and hopes to 'get'
for two at least (their pace to vet) !
More selfish think all service cursed
and dream the Bible's truth's reversed
(God's blessings earned by 'good' we do
on Sundays sitting in a pew) !
Yes, faith may save, but 'Blind Faith' kills!
Who clothes the golden daffodils?
They stretch toward Sun (do they have thoughts?) ,
trash pushed aside by juggernauts.
Were Noah's woods what fleshed out ark
or trees (pre-Noah's time) its spark?
To seek true Bliss each servant's right
(All days aren't weekends, friend?) Good night!
October 16th in 2021
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem