Swiftly the seasons are guiding our days.
We're tossed by the tempest, eclipsed in toil.
The turmoil and winds dictating our ways,
We go through and out of this mortal coil.
By labor, we enter this temp'ral form,
And pains are the herald when we arrive.
Our body, a shipwreck, thrashed by the storm,
Through more pained labor, we briefly survive.
I have known many now under the waves,
Sunken by time to a shadowy depth.
Water and soil both make excellent graves.
But who really cares after final breath?
On the storm we are thrown, yes, and then we will drown
Though we might plot a course, it is where we are bound.
c. June 2000
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