Have I not, in tiresome days, drawn lines
across those rugged floors;
the cracks—a hundred of them all
wrapped my hands and feet with sores?
Have I not, at night, tried painting stars
across a gloomy, cloudless sky
where I invented alien hues
for portraits showing way up high?
Have I not wandered many seas
to seek the rarest jewel;
starved, and lost all hope of life,
to raise my worth a little?
Have I not paid a restful night
with songs I wrote in pain;
was I to extinguish a raging fire
and slain my soul in vain?
Have I not, pray tell, and let me count
how many times I heard ‘Begone!’
Perhaps in solitude, I’ll watch unfold
the tragedy—in everything I’ve done.
One’s purpose in doing good (even if it’s really good) should be beyond just doing good, or merely pleasing people. It must be all about unconditional love; you cannot expect anything in return, lest you grow weary, and the fruit will only turn into resentment.