Man

What is this thing called man,
A bit of flesh, some skin and bones,
A pitiful bundle of frailities,
The slightest blow of nature
Condemns him to oblivion,
And yet, within this shell,
So delicate,
There lives a soul, an intellect
Whose rippled waves
One day will travel
To the farthest reaches
Of the universe,
And merge with
Its guiding intelligence,
Which did create all this.

If there be gods,
Man is made of such clay,
As these divinities are made of....

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz