Anything i do, mother,
Pales in contrast with you
Your life and time in service,
your day and night
mitigating pain
Stopping bleeding
Saving people from
death for a while.
Your life and time in caring
your second and minute
Spent in the craftsmanship
of understanding health
well being
of people and of us.
What kind of service could i do
that would compare to what you do.
There is nothing noble
nothing selfless about what i do
It is wound up instead
in hedonistic desire
like a pendulum that swings from
music to travel
reading about how the world works
and interpreting what i want
sitting in a tower
exploring identity and learning
and beauty and flavour.
Not mitigating but expressing difficulty
Not of the flesh but of the mind
the things that plague the mind
That sometimes seem both
unreal and unnecessary.
There is nothing I do that could be called service.
Each monday i sit at my desk
thinking this week would be when
i would do something
that would change something
somewhere.
I think of you.
You have slept only for a few hours last night
after treating accident victims.
You have returned back to look at
other ailing patients while
I am wondering what chord would fit
the calculation
and how can new music be taught.
The paleness of my life is not
from under or overestimation
of my talents
but the monochromatic hue
your really bright light casts
on me and everything
around me.
I am still playing with toys, mother -
still churning the wheels of the world
I find solace when you listen
to me sing for your two minutes of pleasure.
Before you and my father
and my brother who
work for living beings beyond themselves
every waking moment,
my work only seems
thoughtless indulgence
a fantastical flight
into the unnecessary.
Pales in contrast with you
Your life and time in service,
your day and night
mitigating pain
Stopping bleeding
Saving people from
death for a while.
Your life and time in caring
your second and minute
Spent in the craftsmanship
of understanding health
well being
of people and of us.
What kind of service could i do
that would compare to what you do.
There is nothing noble
nothing selfless about what i do
It is wound up instead
in hedonistic desire
like a pendulum that swings from
music to travel
reading about how the world works
and interpreting what i want
sitting in a tower
exploring identity and learning
and beauty and flavour.
Not mitigating but expressing difficulty
Not of the flesh but of the mind
the things that plague the mind
That sometimes seem both
unreal and unnecessary.
There is nothing I do that could be called service.
Each monday i sit at my desk
thinking this week would be when
i would do something
that would change something
somewhere.
I think of you.
You have slept only for a few hours last night
after treating accident victims.
You have returned back to look at
other ailing patients while
I am wondering what chord would fit
the calculation
and how can new music be taught.
The paleness of my life is not
from under or overestimation
of my talents
but the monochromatic hue
your really bright light casts
on me and everything
around me.
I am still playing with toys, mother -
still churning the wheels of the world
I find solace when you listen
to me sing for your two minutes of pleasure.
Before you and my father
and my brother who
work for living beings beyond themselves
every waking moment,
my work only seems
thoughtless indulgence
a fantastical flight
into the unnecessary.