Like boys who build their castles from little blocks of wood,
And imagine that they are king today of all that’s great and good;
We men build our own walls, perhaps of granite stone,
And proudly sit within those walls upon our self-made throne.
Foolishly we climb our highest tower and look across the land,
To see if someone else’s castle upon a higher hill might stand.
Then gazing at the flying clouds and sinking sun of day,
A memory stirs from deep inside of castles far away;
Splendid ones with spires of light and towering walls of gold,
With stairs that we have climbed and streets that we have strolled.
More glorious than tongue can speak are the sights of a scene thus filled,
But the heart cries a familiar, YES! – These castles are real!
Tho’ here our home may be palatial, each courtyard with fountained pond,
Yet all are but scanty smiles of these castles far beyond.
And so our mortal homes, be they quaint or be they grand,
It matters not at all, for none of these will stand.
Granite stone like wooden blocks will tumble down someday,
And off we’ll fly into the clouds and there in a castle stay!
by Greg Olsen
