Of Men and Oxen

Tomorrow, tomorrow, where are you now?
Locked in a frozen stare, an endless unbroken ring
Of what, and when, and where, and who, and how.
Round and round and round we go,
Upon our foot-prints trod long ago,
Waiting for another path to follow.

Who can say they're satisfied
With all their gains and proud possessions?
There's always something more to win,
Much more to do, much more to see,
So many things we want to be,
But fettered with our inner bonds,
And held by the yoke prepared by men,
We draw the ox-cart filled with bricks
To build another's idle dream.

Fate draws its curtain over our eyes.
We cannot stare in front of us, only behind.
But still we are bid, march on, march on,
And so we trace what we have known.
So round and round we go again,
Until we find the road is barred,
And then we turn in fearful dread,
And leap into the wilderness,
To blaze a new ring round the world,
Until we're turned aside once again.
No sooner is the chain made broken
Than forms another to hold us fast
To chase our tails until a day,
When weary we lie down to rest
And never more our feet regain.

George Chadderdon © 1992