Mystery
I do not know how it will be for me
In days that follow this. My thoughts are blind
To what the future holds so secretly.
In fate’s queer contradictions I can find
No logical progressions; each new day
Brings more confusions to perplex. There seems
Scant possibility that reason may
Have anything to do with life or dreams.
But, since I did not choose to start my life,
Nor dare presume to terminate its course,
I must endure its pestilential strife
And snatch such pleasures as mere chance affords.
Perhaps, before I die – or afterwards! – I’ll see
The reason for life’s all-pervading mystery.
