Who Can Tell
Our life is not a dream,
there’s no magic in our art,
though to others it might so seem,
we are simply playing our part.
It’s no accident, no stroke of luck,
we do not bumble,
seldom stumble,
satisfied each day
with what life has to say.
Even if our life were a dream,
it would need to be embraced,
but no golden palace, no silver hill,
no white elephant need be chased.
Our life, like our love,
though not a dream, remains
unfathomable, indescribable,
it simply sits there, glowing.
We cannot forever keep it,
so for a short while, we
bathe in its perplexity,
revel in its complexity,
be content in never knowing.
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