Who are we in life, if hopeful not of its end?
an audience awed in passing, wishful not to attend
this orchestra, a cacophony of silence and of sound,
while our evanescent joy, obligation surely offends.
What is termed loss, if not a moment to begin with?
a romance left undone, not an affliction to make writhe
our souls that have salvation nor any further to see,
while ambivalent turns existence, from lucidity when made rid.
When are we defined, as mortals and not gods?
by the very end of sunset, each sunset and what odds
have we of finding freedom, of will, of love, of loss,
while those we presumed tending, are ones left most unawed.