how often come the slowed beatings
of time

unleashed by knowing
these devilish ifs
whens and buts

of roads half-built
and half-burnt

yet water still flows beneath
these eggshells of circumstance
widening the same sea of chance

when have
the dust of men
received ear
if not by word or doing

when have stars lost light
even as the multitude of years pass
the dead shine just as bright

grateful hearts receive no ill
as unjust souls receive no heart

the head and the tail
do not mourn the body
for how fat or lean it was

how sweetly the fruit tastes
and sorely it rots


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