Blessed be in weary time of beginnings
Death sets a lovely significance
On all our lives and more
For each ecstatic verse
Was an instant of our mind
Held like descendent divinity
The mysticism in our genes
It’s a future we keep reliving
And a past we keep repeating
For each beloved hour
Has a sharp pang of lost years
Bitter contested failures
And love-eyed private victories
They say we err in front of the world
That cannot remember anything
But succeed in our own merit
In the private judge of a soul’s conscience.
Wuji Seshat 