Here in the light of a dying sun,
Aware of encroaching cold,
I sit with a myriad of things undone
In dissolution and mold.
My mind, too shortly now to be
One with the barren clod,
Shrinks at being undoubtedly
The last human link with God.
I curse, then I settle, for things have gone
Exactly according to plan:
A bug and a lichen to carry on,
For man, after all, was a man.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 18, 1953
