by Luis G. Dato
Is man a beast, and, animal, does he
Subsistence eke from parsimonious earth?
Is it a curse or boon that he has birth,
His bliss o’ershadowed by mortality?
Is it illusion mere, his liberty.
To add one more iota to his worth,
Whyfore in transientness his life, his mirth?
His love, life-giving, does it make him free?
Love’s not a fluid, but a current that
With positives and negatives produce
The flame of life, and whence and whither, what,
We know not much, the knowing of what use?
We know that to a Day our days all tend,
Which is the end (is it, is it the end?).