All players on this cosmic stage
in here and now we find our page.
At work, in rest, we search and strive
to know and be our most alive
and question every cloud and stone
about the things that are our own
yet know our every wish and hope
is part of life’s kaleidoscope.
It matters not our time and place –
clock hands sweep round a constant face –
our lives repeat in books, in dreams,
through actions on the silver screens.
And though our stuff of street and land
be varied as each grain of sand,
all beauty, passion, terror, war are
pageant passing through our door.
Same bones, same lungs, same blood, same breath;
same hunger, pain, same birth, same death.
But voice and print and words we speak
are DNA of what’s unique.
Off-road we sometimes bump and grind
and crash stiff gears own views to find
but what I know, this much is true
you’re made of me, I’m made of you.