every morning
hosts
of numerous problems
knock at my skull
requesting admission

and
as i recline at night
my heart is shredded
with sufferings

the breakfast bread
tastes stale and hard
the tea is bitter

on my front lawn
stands an army
aiming rifles at me
and
too soon the cold
north winds will
whip at my back

rain rips at my roof

yet
grief is weak
where pleasures
prevail

this heart is patient
i hear its song
singing . . .

"within me . . is He
 and thee"