A Comedy of Life
Like children, singing songs they’ve learned by rote,
Their words, just simple noises set to rhyme,
Each day we don an old familiar coat,
And step out on the stage just one more time.
We’ve learned to play our parts with style and grace,
Each line delivered like it was our own,
A finely crafted mask, to hide our face,
An ending for the play, we’ve always known.
If Pierrot should pine for Pierrette,
Or Cyrano should die for fair Roxanne,
What matter that our tears should fall, for yet,
We know it’s part of some celestial plan.
And thus, the play of life goes on unchanged,
Our choices, by the fates, all prearranged.
August 28th, 2007 at 5:38 pm
The undertone of sadness in this is very moving, Bob. Do you think fate governs us that closely? I agree that our potentials and proclivities at least are not our own, but I think it’s useful to believe that what we make of them is largely up to us.
August 28th, 2007 at 6:38 pm
They’re just words, Martin. Sad to some, prophetic to others, worthless to most. One of life’s ironies is the expectation of new results from old actions.