We pity those mortals
who have tasks at hand,
who, if they turn the leaflet,
must do so within the lap of an hour.

For the gods who abode in wilderness
attain the aspects of midges,
and fruit that strikes the barren floor
must return by way of mold,

And the idyllic breath of trees
is tainted by those of spiders,
who pass the day by hanging web
and small talking with their cohort.

Water, which does run its course
in magnificent reprisal
of the solidity of dust and mornings
that come crashing down on morrow,

Must take its penitence in life,
locked by pen and reed,
in its return trip to the sea, it meets
all possibility.

All foolery turns to error
when sung within a hymn,
we mistake that grave thing, Time
amidst the company of ghosts.