Who planted these hurtful seeds of discord,
Mixing them among the bits of wheat grain,
Laying a hex on land that can afford
No such burden, for it has never lain
Fallow, having imposed upon it no
Seventh year stretch, no time for idle rest?
Whose hand left the sack, and tossed to and fro
The rough, cruel tares among the gentle best?
It was my own hand that planted this field,
That heedless, from the store there at my hip
Sowed such strife between the narrow furrows.
But others must take their crop from this yield;
They too will pay at harvest for my slip —
How deep the roots of regret and blame grow.
23 SEP 2003