How Much More? Poem by William B. Deutscher

How much more
can I say
when the light shifts hard
in the passing day?
How much more
can I do
when the time moves fast
all the way from you?
How much more
can I be
when the night falls short
haphazardly?
There's always
something else
forgotten, lost
and left behind,
ripped away
by guile and stealth,
frozen purview
of the blind.
How much more
can I hope
when the air is thin
at the top of the slope?