Gaia. . .

The Punished Son, 1778 …by Jean Baptiste Greuze

Gaia. . .

Nature destroys you before it kills you,

She employs many means by which to break you,

Calamity, disease, emotional distress, if you please,

Before she kills you.

She takes no prisoners,

Shows no mercy,

Spares no entity,

But like the slow burn of spindle and bearing,

We suffer the grind of pointless wearing.

Look to no-one to ease the pain,

For it is yours only..and so it will remain,

Like the old red hen bent neck and dying,

Set upon by the others, younger and thriving,

There will be no ache relieving,

From those you thought willing,

To ease your anguish,

To be thoughtful and forgiving.

For with every caress, every patient soothe,

Your end is not impeded..but in a way more crude,

Does their kindly words assuage their own serious doubt,

Give succour with such sympathetic, altruistic flout,

But in vain,

In vain…will their lamenting ring out!