IN the small and great world too,
I wrote a poem on the mist
And a woman asked me what I meant by it.
I had thought till then only of the beauty of the mist,
how pearl and gray of it mix and reel,
Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
For ever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
People in a hall that’s lit so brightly
Spoke of religion
In the lives of contemporary people
Is it worth bringing a child into the world, mother?
Terror has taken over our lives, lamented my daughter…
Her question haunted me, and I pondered a while.
Life is so precious, yet so ephemeral and fragile.
He crouched in front of all his books,
ten thousand and a few
he looked at his certificates
one hundred, none were new.
What is the end of each man's toil,
Brother, O Brother?
A handful of dust in a bit of soil-
His name forgotten as centuries roll,
Searching for answers in my teacup,
looking deep into the tarot dealers lines,
searching stars, numbers and magical runes,
maybe... I should just search your eyes.
WHERE, oh where are the visions of morning,
Fresh as the dews of our prime?
Gone, like tenants that quit without warning,