A circumstance convinced me, all of sight
is not my only through which I've seen.

But the rest, behold their zest,
For those we pocket, never thoughtfully.

These blessings like stones, yet not dull,
But of the finest tone, the others forlorn in erode.

With time, With malice,
With wind the peasants will find solace.

In hands barren from my pampered own.
In hands, reaching over pores long broken.

And will reap the moment so dreamt,
when tears fill thy's holes,
And fulfillment restore's thy's dispense.

Into the drudgery of despair,
like an acorn seeking spring
Yet caught within the snare.

Of the unwilling,
the embodiment
Of one like the ungiving hare.