To What End Poem by Richard Burgess

To what end is our existence?
A void placing us as an interlude marker in the great curtain of night,
A sand-grain on the beach
or a water droplet in a vast ocean on a stormy day?

How does that same void take me to you, fearful of oneself,
Like a child taking fledgling steps toward its first freedom,
Or a Bluebell in spring,
Gone for a season?

And what of the wonderment of circumstance?
Certainly not chosen, yet bequeathed,
Bourne of one's essence,
discharged against ones will?

And finally, we find our great garden of solace, our peace.
Will we be remembered?
Or are we gone for a season?
Just like the Bluebell?