The times are no thyme, but I’ll see the sign: A poem 

These times are, like limes, sour and bitter 

My life has never been as soft as butter 

I know suffering has always been my abstract daughter 

But I was born with the dignity to be patient foster 

My wings have been frozen every season 

Yet, I have flown past every treachery and every treason 

like an orbiting satellite with much vision 

Duty is an uncomfortable but unrelinquishable cushion 

You think I’m grey like grass turns to hay 

But my work is still fodder for the Supreme who bothers 

And I am not the type who thinks sacrifice is odder 

For, I know the universe has its own voice recorder 

When I am weaker, I try to be stronger 

The more patient I am, when it gets longer 

The jet plane may take an eternity to the hangar 

I’ll see the sign that duty is done; no longer be a lone ranger 

But if you need me to protect, 

I am slave to duty and master to direct 

Divinity knows what to accept and reject 

May this truth and justice, we all respect