The Futile Chase

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In a world that rushes without rest,

Where speed is crowned and praised as best,

Voices fade before they sing,

Beneath the rule of a hollow king.


Eyes grow small, like things confined,

In narrow wells of their own mind.

They wear fake wisdom, thin and slight,

Pretending knowledge without sight.


They walk in circles, lost in air,

A stage of noise, yet nothing there-

Earth and woman stand in place,

Witnesses to this mindless race.


For generations they tilled the ground,

In barren fields, no harvest found;

Calloused hands and restless souls,

Yet still repeating the same old roles.


They see the drought but never ask,

Why they cling to a futile task;

They offer sacrifices deep,

For dreams they do not choose to keep.


Awaken, wanderers-lift your eyes,

Beyond the walls that thought supplies;

For wisdom grows not in the chase,

But in the stillness we must face.


Not in haste or empty flight,

But in the soul’s enduring light.

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