We all stumble , falter and fall
No more than the dust after all

We rant , pretend or rave
But there are no words coming from the grave

Our time is spent whether we pay
Our lives granted a fixed number of days

How many full moons caught your eye
Now you are asking me "Why?"

Don't you see all of it is in vain
Brings us back to the quesion of dust again

The answer my friend ?
It's blowing in the wind



Last stanza by Robert Zimmerman aka Bob Dylan .

I knew her when
She learned her letters;
She liked me too.

We shared a tent;
Followed the sparks fading in the full moon's face.
Draped water over our skins at midnight.

She bickered with her mother,
Whom she mothered today.

She once had a mole
Only we two knew.

I knew her then.
That's the fact of it.

She rebelled,
Then surpassed naysayers and detractors.
I knew her, then.
Got to know her at her best-
A sharer, and keeper,
One who wasn't one to rest.

I knew her without discretion;
Like when she partied at Mardi Gras,
Wearing string-beads, blowing saxes,
Something she never spoke of.

Then, this cannot be her.
I knew her, and,
I didn't know.