Would the world halt its motion
If it ceased at once to have a meaning?
For reasons are found in the smallest things
From stone to bird to singing stream
The avail is still unknown, it seems
Or perhaps there is none at all
And there never was, only dreams
Pretty images formed in lost minds
To justify a meaning so hard to find
For what is a life devoid of reason?
Perhaps they are wrong
For in the absence of truth
There is no lie
There is only a canvas
So perhaps, with the right mind
And with appropriate materials
Something so bare and hollow
Can be brought to be more
Even than words uttered
Terribly by the breadth of being