9th13

A human question;
A question of being,
With a mortal cry:
So Job poured out
His requiem, to
The disappointed
Hopes of man:
So comes a thought,
Amid the calling
Of the wind, and
The cracking of
The winter leaves;
Only one life
Have we heard of:
Phenomena all around;
Yet I am not,
For I have seen
The evanescence
Of a man,
Infinitely remote
From his desire;
So sensitive
To impression, yet
Unable to second
Designs and desires;
Where nothing is real
And nothing is realized:
All alone…….
And then to die,
In wonder that he
Had been born at all;
Mute, meek eyes,
Look to heaven:
They neither accuse,
Nor complain.

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