There is only one answer.
My purpose is life.
The world has a teaching:
Evolution.
Evolution implies superior direction.
But the stigma of man is lust for blood--
The shot of the rifle; the scream of defiance
The groan of surrender...
We strive
This is the conflict of life with the idol of the past.
We strive, and evolution remains an epitaph of the past
Ours, the revolutions
And who can say whether we progress age by age
Or merely recycle the same old sins
But Life is created purpose enough.
Where there was no seam, one appears as if by magic
It is the mysterious prerogative
The world cracks, and out flows, rainbowed and patterned
Enveloping
The embryonic purpose, fulfilling its part
While the old world falls empty
To lie broken in the grass
Purpose and Life, so.
And we strive with the teaching of the world
Because we remain a mystery.
The day one dies, then, and the day of one’s birth
Mysteriously happy and sad...
Momentous both, to be born to life
To be dead to the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment