Hard-won bliss follows the toil

Like wings, that flap after the mouth eats from the soil

Whether a spectator or performer

In the mind, remain we must, a foreigner

There are only two branches that matter

Rest are leaves that will scatter

On one sits the watcher

And the other hosts the plotter

The same soup’s served to both

One breaks, and the other lives by the oath

As gold diggers we are brave

It is no secret what we crave

Where does true wealth vanish?

It is lost, well before we perish

Not if the achiever turns a seeker

Letting the inner bystander become the speaker