Salute to the dreams that were broken;
In times as of yet undefined;
The thoughts, were they God’s will bespoken?
“Tis so,” said the men oft-opined.
But uttered aloud words don’t flourish;
Escaping men’s lips, power who seek;
The ground, cold ambitions don’t nourish;
Fertilized by those who are weak.
Might ever divine we designs;
Which are brought to the world from on high?
And those are for naught, what the signs?
What thoughts for to lead us awry?
For all, to this the great question;
Befuddles the futures of men;
Leads people toward their obsession;
Though foolish so often they’ve been.
Now for them as seek good, the rebuttle?
Tell, how to descry what is true?
When waters beneath us, a muddled;
By boastful, and their zeal to rule.
The answer? Is found in the sonnet;
In literature you might obtain;
Submerged in the thoughts that are written;
Ink on paper suffers not the vain.