A Sestina

By Satya Benson

Lying in bed, imagining all the wonderful creations
To come, crying tears inside because they won’t, I can’t fight,
I am too weak even though I can be strong and eat the fruit
Of labour I won’t, I will not though I want, though I must walk,
But on the outside, where I can see, I don’t yet drink
Those tears, those bitter tears, not till I’ve pushed through the thick

And out into the light and the others where I can’t tell if it’s still thick
Or if I’m stronger, and maybe I really can make those creations
And in a glass of hot blessed pride offer a drink
To all those who I want to challenge, and then it will be their fight,
But no, that is a dream, life is moving fast and I must walk
And then I dream that life will bear my fruit,

And I am back. But this time it is trivial and I plant small trees, that will bear fruit
That is hard and true, but small, so small, and does little to penetrate the thick,
Little indeed, so onward but not forward I must walk,
Until like Alice I look back and have come so far but I have to run faster to get to any creations, Faster, always faster and never fast enough, I have to keep up the fight
So at the end of the day I can lean back and take a drink

But not too deep, I must be wary of drowning, know when to pull away the drink,
For that, more than dreams, will bear the real, cold fruit
In that small ugly life we fight without valor or honor, our fight
Is dirty and small and slow and bare, a fight to clear the thick,
To push it away, and leave in its stead full lush creations
But that is a dream, and instead I keep on my feet and walk.

Must that be? Do I have to give in, to just let go and walk?
It brings relief but sadness too, and is not truly resolved — instead I will drink
Deeply without drowning, and someday I will realize my dreams, see my creations,
And they will, I believe, bear rich lush fruit, thick fruit,
But I lie, I do not believe, and hampered by self-imposed limits stumble and rush to the heavy thick
I didn’t see it coming, but I will get up again and fight again, that valorous fight, I will fight —

Lying in bed, crying tears inside because I can’t fight,
I will not be strong and eat and drink, though I must walk,
Walk crying bitter tears which make me blind to see them, then pushing through the thick
And out to my cup of tears which I now drink,
And out to my tall trees bearing their gorgeous fruit,
And I do not only imagine all the wonderful creations.

But here remains the thick and still I must fight
For my creations to make them real, and I keep on the walk
All the way back home, to lean back and take a drink made from the aged sweet juices of my fruit.