Suffering is the currency of life,
Not wealth,
Not good fortune,
Not even love.
Piles of money,
Won’t stave off
The task master of pain,
Perfect plan, perfectly executed,
Is like water through a sieve,
Washed away,
Unretained,
Nothing.
Love, yes love,
The sweet communion,
That gives us value,
Binds us together,
With cords of anguish
There is nothing,
To make anything,
Of purpose out of life,
Except suffering,
So that someone else,
does not.