Men folk, are but puppets, in nature’s play,
captivated by this world’s mise-en-scene;
and so they examine preceding days,
in search of what their experience means.
They turn over, hitherto, untouched stones,
and gaze at the sky with a dead goat’s stare.
They rifle through the earth and bloodless bones,
and take to their knees to tender their prayers.
They hope and hope there is something more,
unable to grasp their impermanence,
intractably, expecting man’s encore,
strung like pearls, and practising their penance.
Does conviction in a heavenly being,
absolve man’s life from having no meaning.