Man?

What is this thing
Called man,
A bit of flesh,
Some skin and bone,
A pitiful bundle of frailities,
The slightest blow of nature
Commits 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 shaped of such clay
As these divinities are made of.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2007 Alfred Charasz