Such doubts the Stupid God does in me sow;
The field I am it tills, and in each row
Does plant the seeds whose fruit is “I don’t know
If I suffice to face my tasks assigned.
I don’t know if I have the strength of mind
Or fortitude to handle what I find
Out in the world. It’s better I don’t try,
Better I let none on me rely.”
Those fruits, when plucked, my agency deny,
And I allow the harvest to take place
Too often, let my longings be effaced
By grasping hands--and I dare not them chase.
When crops are taken, bare the earth may lie,
Gaping open, victim of the sky.
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