A RUST UPON THE BLADE
WORRY, worry and grow old, sad and weary
Just like ones who grieves before it is necessary.
Worry, that species of monomania,
A rust upon the blade,
Surely kills, though not so quickly
As it waters miseries, hoe up comforts
And takes you back in time.
Who could have foretold
That worry appalls the mind,
And clouds over the sunshine of life?
As the little petty vexations.
Though everyone pay no heed to it,
Until a sick mind expresses itself
Through a sick body.
O listen, listen, and listen
A soul without mirth
never amounts too much,
As well as trees without blossoms will never bear fruit.
So don’t relax and fret
But rather write your heart on a paper
And read your rhymes out loud
Oyet @2022
worry is a rust upon a blade, it dis-empowers hope and faith
