Langston Hughes on Maundy Thursday

When dreams die,
they land with a dull thud
like  prizefighter,
down for the count
never to stand again.

Age knocks most of us out 
with the push of youth
coming behind us,
and we defer,
deafening our ears
to visions’ music

until life lies
like a beach splayed out
against the sky’s ocean
with the stinging slap
of cruel waves
in ebb and flow.

What’s more real--
idealism’s naked sunburned glory
or pragmatism’s obdurate
sideways dance toward survival
like crabs upended
in time’s surf?

I don’t know. 
Instead, I avert eyes,
pass by on the other side,
like any good priest,
avoiding words
stripped of meaning.  

For surely Hughes knew:
all dreams die eventually
and the broken-winged dove 
cries and limps,
unsure of how--and whether--
to go on.

                          ©2010, Tess  Lockhart.   All rights reserved.