A dry and dusty desert now is he
With no oases for his parched dismay;
His still effulgence matched in irony
By flowering winds making him this way.
What thrives in Spring and fashions growth must go
The way of everything in transience.
What breathes and dances in its vigor slows
To feed each beast and bower standing hence.
But science never soothes a tragedy;
Philosophy he has, which doesn't heal;
Divine life now unravels emptily;
A god without a godhead: what he feels.
For though a life is short, a god be whole,
Beside both life and death are lovers' souls.
A place for my poems 