Life passes by like a dream.
The human mind is at war with this.
The human mind craves order and control,
And dreams are made of something like thin sand,
Forever slipping between fingers, and
On through the hourglass of the human soul.
It's quite a problem. How can we make sense
Of something so ephemerally soft?
Life's not an anvil that we beat against;
It's not a lighthouse, or a farmer's croft;
It's something slight, like pollen on the breeze,
Half-lost already in the darkling trees.
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