This calmness will no doubt engulf the blue,
and cause a silence Haedian, hurtful, hard;
Beginning methinks ends in those heavens
where cease to exist things, and thus, regard.
The sky unwordly shows us what’s untrue.
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You ask me who engendered these small worlds,
but ask I who begot the cause of all.
If God exists, where is He now, please say;
and also if He likes spring, summer, fall.
My mind does boggle sighting cosmic curls.
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A strong creator somewhere truly bides,
perhaps abides the Lord right here all time.
But why we see Him not is question great
that I shall answer for no reason rhyme.
We see Him not, for He dwells in insides.
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So nothing can escape His sight that’s sharp,
much sharper than the sharpest we conceive.
The question therefore should be ‘Who am I?’
Am I to live and die or just perceive?
Could I know so on what haps I don’t harp?
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You shall find out the fix before you die;
Death’s a sad truth that none can sure escape;
and should you be reborn as man of might,
devise a plan that might this world reshape.
For men who come one fine day go, true lie.
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Categories: Rhythmic and Metric