All English Sonnets
Across the heaven, dazzling meteor shoots,
The music oozes from its fiery tail-
But all this comes to nothing, no avail.
For where is time to follow these pursuits.
The business of survival is a curse,
A hurry and a flurry and a scramble,
A race, a maddening rush, an averse,
where nobody can slowly slowly amble.
And music is considered as the trifles,
Indulged in by the failures and discards,
And pressure of survival ever stifles,
The waiting singers and the rising bards.
I wonder how much music, how much verse,
Is perished by the burden of commerce.