When everything is not enough,
What then, my son? What then?
We’ll cram our lives with so much “stuff”
And call ourselves real men.
We’ll scale the highest mountain peak
And throw our voices off.
And, when we hear our echoes speak,
We’ll make as if to scoff.
And, though time’s felled the willow tree
Where once our harps were hung,
We’ll laugh it off with joyous glee
And leave no song unsung.
And yet, for all our huff and puff,
It matters not one jot;
Enough remains not just enough
But everything we’ve got.
Photo by Evi T. on Unsplash
