Dust—All’s Yellow

Erase the yellowed parchment, start anew—

A foolish hope, a vain and futile goal.

I am the sum of all I've suffered through;

Without my scars I'd be another soul.

No, better I had died before my birth,¹

Or swaddling cloths had been my tiny shroud—

I'd not complain of justice and its dearth.

Existence, to be honest, is not cowed,

But howls the hated truth though none believe.

Myself alone I know, and you do not,

And to unsullied innocence I cleave

In isolation by injustice wrought.²

I cannot, till my justice come to me,

Lament some other human tragedy.

Footnotes

¹: See Job 3:10.

²: Job replies that there is no justice for him.

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