Life may be magnanimous, The sleek making way of water reeds Before a smooth canoe. It may be. Or life perchance is tragic, A limitless march, march, march To the restriction of a pinnacle. It may be. These two modes of life Are one, in sum. The tragic will navigating North, The lazy wanderer wading South. What happens to the one, Happens exactly to the other. Death, or some other bother. It may be. When, in this light, we look At ourselves, we disappear Into the necessitous intimate Staring there in the mirror. It may be.