Thought the tree won,t blossom,
nor fruits fill it’s soul,
the labor shall not fail,
for truth will assail.
All shall be heard,
and no one will dread,
the field will yield,
a blessed will.
Sweet sounds will adorn the field,
pronounced in joy and heard,
the power of knowledge,
wretch the babbling wedge.
Tortures will turn to rejoice,
a glowing breast of inspire,
rejoicing in freedom and fire,
a greatenesss of admire.
The scorn will be despair,
the cymbal of triumph,
will be there,
a cure of care.
© Copyright Sergio A. Morales All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment