Oh, that I were a wish
Whose well be barren.
This life’s unyielding pain,
Would have fared itself far greater than, Spring--
That blooms in December. A waterfall,
Whose stream never thickens. A bird,
Whose chirping be dated.
Oh yes! That I were a wishing well,
Whose penny be centless. A man,
Whose made-for match, never be fated.
A father.
A mother.
A fallen leaf.
An earthly womb,
unconsumed.