Whining is not acceptable

Running breathlessly
- for that's how I run -

I may run out of breath,

or trip, tumble, topple, 

- the trek a cinch isn't -

leagues before the top,

then fall flat on my face.

You can jeer.

Jeering is acceptable.

But, idling in your farms,
fenced and too familiar,
- as in the tired allegories of yore -
whine not about absence of adventure
while I still venture:

whimpering worries the winds,
the winds worry my heart.

Running breathlessly

- for the air there is thin -
I may run out of zest,

and weaken, wear out, wilt

- the trek a cinch isn't -

leagues before the top,

then tread back with a lost face.

You can jeer.
But, sitting sullenly,
in your farms,
fenced and too familiar,
whine not.
Whining is not acceptable.