LIFE

Is to some as a glass of wine

To be greedily quaffed in one hurried draught

To the dregs, and then, the glass renewed

With vintage of a fresher brew,

Be it sweet or bitter.

TO ANOTHER:

It is as a tapestry, and he the weaver

Who dyes the warp in wondrous hues

And weaves the weft in patterns gay.

But Time fades the blue to grey, the mauve to lavender

Making all colours look more soft and tender.

And yet, there gleams a thread of gold, ageless and bold.

TO YET ANOTHER:

Life is a fine, gay adventure,

And he sails on unchartered seas

Dauntless while the tempest rocks and heaves

His frail craft upon the foaming billows

Of the seething sea. But he steers it

With fearless faith on to the unknown haven.

TO ALL OTHERS:

Life is but a ruthless automaton

To which perpetually slaves they are,

Like cogs in its wheels, from birth till death,

Rotating day unto night, will-less, joy-less, soul-less.

Mechanical, they toil, sleep, wake, beget and die;

No waves of memory beat on the sandy shore of their span of Time,

Nor gleams of light shine on the dark recesses of their muddled mind.

Like a herd of dumb driven cattle they cross

The Rubicon betwixt life and death.