The Bowl

Why don’t I pose for the picture frame?
You say it will be like I was never there,
And only some faint footsteps will remain,
Their exhaled echoes dying in the air:
And soon those small traces will also pass,
Time’s effacing wind will scatter them
To the bowl where all unfixed is condemned
And what is not set will never last.
But fixed or unfixed all reach the same end,
The same winds weather each and every face—
On the same waters writ each and every name.
Take your picture; whatever you intend
Will end in the ruined bowl, the bowl itself effaced—
All and all the winds will make the same.

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This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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