So where has my fervor gone?
Could it be that achievement,
Doesn’t inspire achievement,
But complacency?
Upon examination however,
What have I achieved for my exertion?
And how far have I run?
Looking back I see my past clearly,
Is it only a little distance behind me?
Then what pride do I have?
Can I afford to rest here now,
Between then and what’s to come?
And of my journey till now,
Does it mean nothing?
After all, effort is only justified by the end.
But then life itself is meaningless,
For all men die and are buried.
All we do to be or not to be,
Would amount to nothing more than vanity,
For our reward would be no different,
From an other’s punishment.
Instead, it would be wise to say,
That life is not one great effort,
But a series of many smaller ones.
The sprint of a day, the marathon of a year.
Time becomes our friend rather than our enemy,
For a victory can be found every minute,
If in that minute I can say I’ve taken a step.
Now when I look back,
I see a finish line I’ve already crossed,
And forward, a goal that’s not so distant.