Made to Breathe
In regard to the gods,
their secrets, who knew human love
Signs were many. Years facing
the gods led to scorn. Nothing is.
Of this earth, nothing is told about myths
made to breathe merely
a hundred times. The stone,
at the very end, measured by time,
watches the world push.
Heavy yet upheld, the workman
works his fate, but is powerless to it.
I fancy melancholy in man, nights
without knowing the moment
tragedy begins—his little voice
necessary to night.
If there is a master over life,
he is eager to see the rock rolling.
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