Pain is pain and Trouble is trouble.
The tear of the forsaken
Together with the fear begotten
Play the same trick upon our passion
Numb the world and kill our reason
And run amok in the same fashion
To steal our meaning and lead us on
With a hand behind us
And another in front -
Without escape
We must bear the brunt
That our pain is ours
And in contempt of hours.
Pain said to Trouble, ‘What do you know?’
And trouble replied, ‘Enough not to owe
A second to pleasure or moment to joy’.
So Pain said to Trouble (in an arrogant ploy)
‘But you are trouble, not pain
And I know that lustreless gloss
Which glazes orphan eyes.’
Trouble replied, with the lonely look of a boy
‘And I am trouble, not pain’
So I know that wonderless moss
Which obscures orphan lives’.
But through those orphan eyes
In pain and in trouble
Pain is pain and Trouble is trouble.
