The Trade

Camping at an oasis in the Mashed Potato Desert
I float on waters of wonder,
Ignoring for now the bland sameness all around.
I drift toward the sound of strange songs
And spy a great wild bird
Come to drink at the oasis.

It lets me look deep into its eyes
To see there the desolation from which it came,
The hell-demons who in their obscene games
Of rending and twisting lumps of desert blandness
Will now and then chance to spin
A transmutation of pain,
A thing of wild beauty 
So alien to the demons
That their nets of gold are as smoke it its path.  

There is one lure which can draw it,
But its use would require the demons
To cease to be demons
And become creatures of the light.
Some few do,
Though most seem doomed 
To an eternity of throwing nets in the dark. 

Why all this is so in a mystery
Leading those of us chosen to be more than lumps in the desert
To ask if the gods have given us the pain
     as the price for our awakening
Or the wonder as compensation for the pain.

                                        written 1640 hr  4/04/83
                                        typed   0150 hr  5/17/83
                                        entered 1220 hr  3/05/92