It’s here I type and think
and mark; collect ideas to link
with some coherent thread of sense.
All in third person, present tense.
Vocation this can hardly be,
for undiscipled I can’t see
the use of all my sweat and toil,
without a stake and fecund soil.
I’ve tried to pacify this truth
as revealed in frugal youth.
To think of what I really could
faithfully inaugurate, I should
turn towards the sacred unknown,
not falter, then perennially postpone.
Recalcitrant, I sit and work and moan,
deskbound in my claustral home.
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