An ode.it reads:
In time all things, but what things in time?
Even when they come, they come in a line
And that line is not straight, except to the eye
It comes right around, it does by and by;
Wait and you'll see it come round again
But wait, its beginning is not quite its end
In coming and going, just where does it go
And who is a poet, that he would know
Of the spiral of being, its fractal discourse
The path of becoming, for better or worse;
The thing that is nothing, it must become
A thing that is many, and a thing that is one
Many its virtues and just one its voice
To follow its fate, the fruit of its choice
Can it choose of its choosing or is that haram
Dictated wholly by a push or a bomb
Spiraling out both toward and away
Narrowing the dusk of the night and the day?
Or perhaps this outsider his coracle rows
Dreaming of life and of death which he knows
Until he awake, and reveal just one thing
Sound spinning outward; that soul he must sing!