What For —

Life is full of foolishness,
And most our time is wasted;
Existence is its own excuse,
So few the meals we’ve tasted

With all the relish we could feel.
And then one day we’re stricken
With signs of our mortality
The body, weak and sickened —

And suddenly, we wonder why
We spent our days so idly;
Why we let life just pass us by
And didn’t travel widely

We’re there, upon the precipice,
Of “It-Is-Way-Too-Late”
And know the Heraclitian truth
That character is fate

We make our choices everyday
And only now, we get it —
ThatĀ if the world’s a noble fire,
It wasn’t us
Who set it

(..)

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