Knowledge.
In learned books what do we gain,
argue Heidegger with Russell, Sartre, Berlin,
quote Descartes, Kant, Wittgenstein,
know all the answers
to a world we never live in.
So, richer by far a labourer be
perhaps, never to read nor write
but with a glance, a smiling eye
name each tree, each bird in flight.
Who'll stand in awe at a burning sunrise,
enjoy the cool moisture of a summer shower,
wonder at life in a woodland paradise,
marvel at the changing colour in ever hour.
Glow at the warmth in a lover's embrace,
willingly give that gentle kiss,
lovingly touch a smiling face,
relish holding hands in silent bliss.
Experience magic through a child's sight,
know how to dry its tear,
when to lift it, hold it tight,
bringing comfort, chasing fear.
Desipient book worms may shake their head,
mock this untutored state, only see a fool,
but this bookless knowledge will stand them in greater stead,
they took their learning at a more erudite school.
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