Had I but on the chance of losing my hope once given
Up, so that it wouldn’t have gone for many weeknights
And quite a number of colourless weekends, too,
Would I have become aware that it is a disease?
Perchance and only by that which might be strong luck
May I have undergone the treatment of black bliss in
Blue worlds and fathomless lakes within auburn forests
And realized that bloom could indeed be therein.
Now beings of light, never begotten but existing –
Without a raison d’être mayhap, and if, no sublunar’d know
Or be able to see into this purpose that contingently
Has been breathed by a God into his cubist painting,
Sometimes so expressionist and simplehearted –
Lament this cessation of hope, that I though bemoan not:
It is luck which makes us, but it are losses that take us
Along and to a potentially blitheful far side of life.
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