I once sat, thick and old, In some kind of historic hold. Coating a book with pages shut, obscuring the words on its spine.
Over time the cover greyed, But never could the words be changed. I never dared to touch a page, And so, though trapped, the chapters stayed.
But one day someone came and snuck Into the dusty, moulding nook. They grasped the book and picked it up, They read its words and snapped it shut.
And I spiralled into the air, Tumbling headfirst, unaware. Into the threads of light that danced, Before the reader, who romanced
That we cannot control the breeze, the shutting snap, the neighbour's sneeze. We cannot brace for life and fettle, We cannot cling and sit and settle. We cannot brush the stinging nettle, nor smother out a whistling kettle.
We are not agents of control, With long permanence of the soul. Until we hear the church bells toll, We're at the fairground on parole.
We're waltzing fireflies in the dark, We're dandelions in a park. We're each one fish within a shoal, We're all a brick of burning coal.
And when the sharks begin to swarm, Or when up comes a heavy gust, And our embers no longer warm, The breeze will turn us back to dust.