Some people accept
The destined fate;
Of my will,
I contemplate –
What is my love,
That thing I do?
That can leave me
peace
And joy too?
What is this thing,
So needed, so bare,
That in its arms
I will grow unaware,
Of the brevity,
The shortness of
life,
The certainty of
death,
The want for love,
The need for meaning?
What is this thing?
I pray to find;
Perhaps I will accept
Those sands of time.
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