Thursday, April 2, 2009


This heart that beats is not my own,
Nor the blood which through these veins does flow,
Not flesh that blankets borrowed bone,
Or the hair that on my head does grow.
My body is borrowed, this life not mine;
A steward only, 'till Fate decides
To drop her blade and end my time.
Of ownership, I can take no pride.

For I could no more own the wind,
That comes and goes as whimsy moves,
Than claim these things I cannot defend.
Mine so long as the Fates approve.
Then how much more the bank account,
The clothes I wear, the car I drive?
I could not keep them though I should mount
All the world's levees 'gainst Eternity's tide.

So whence this grasping cast of mind
That seeks to own and not to give?
Knowing full well that all I find
Escapes from me like sand through a sieve.
Better it seems to loose my grip
Of icy greed, spread wide my hands.
Let all like wind through my fingers whip,
To sing for the tide and not weep for the sand.

Life is a flux, all motion and change
Where things are not owned, only rearranged.

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