Echoes From Ecclesiastes
by Stuart James Beall
The daughter of music sang to me when grinding sounded low.
Doors were shut in all the streets. At the voice of the bird, I arose.
My pitcher wasn’t broken then. The cistern held no fear.
Although I was a young man, the windows were not clear.
There is no pleasure in these years. The evil days have come.
Fear watches in the way, beneath the dimness of the sun.
The grasshopper is clinging to a loose silver thread.
Now the keeper of the house desires a long home for his bed.