When I look at the surf-splashed columns of rock,
With an aerated drink in my hands,
I get lost in the breathtaking scenic panorama.
Somewhere, far away, butterflies must be fluttering
In rapturous delight in the pretty
West lands stretching for miles.
I think of the religions and traditions,
Of slavery and debauchery
Eating and hollowing mankind
The way termites do to wood.
Life seems such a waste.
The love we have not given,
The powers we did not utilize,
The children left to perish with diseases,
The women abandoned shamelessly,
The old ill treated and left to suffer alone,
And The soldiers bleeding to death.
We all thought that the purpose of life
Is seeking for our own happiness,
Making life so cruel and senseless,
A real waste!
When shall we rise from this waste?
Is that day far when
Our waste of life will turn
Into opportunities of wisdom?