Moon at Half Past Noon

Long ago, in candlelit rooms,
A seeker mixed his bubbling brews,
Turning pages of ancient books,
Hoping to find life’s hidden truth.
His joy was brief—a spark, a flash—
Like catching light in cupped hands.

Then came thinkers with clocks and rules,
Measuring stars with careful tools.
No more dreams of magic gold—
Now they sought what could be told
In numbers, facts, and proven ways.
Their joy burned steady through the days.

Meanwhile, workers in the field
Found their peace in harvest’s yield,
In children fed and rest well-earned,
In fireside tales when day was done.
Their joy was simple, deep and plain—
The quiet after months of strain.

Craftsmen shaped with patient skill,
Carving wood or weaving thread,
Making beauty that would last
Long beyond their fleeting breath.
Their joy was in the work well done,
A piece of time they’d overcome.

Now we live with screens so bright,
Scrolling endless through the night.
The world’s knowledge in our palm,
Yet something’s missing—where’s the calm?
Our joy comes quick but fades too fast,
Like footprints in the sand at last.

Was life better long ago?
Or do we just imagine so?
Each age finds its own delight,
Each struggles with its different fight.
Perhaps true joy was never found
In things, but in the looking round.

And what of times that are to come?
When machines may think as one,
Will they tell us what is true?
Will they teach us joy anew?
Or will the greatest art remain
To choose to be human again?