We Can Make O u r L i v e s Sublime
Sweet soul, in mournful numbers
We dwindle like a lost tribe
With the beauty of dead slumbers
And life’s earnest poetry to dust returns
In our voices that will not climb
The days and decades to come
Our psalms to beauty
Will not say \time is fleeting\
Art is long and love endures
The past lives in shadows here
In our heart that holds the mystery
Of all that was great and all
That can learn and labour and wait
The poetry that is the true music
Of the human spirit pursing itself.
Wuji Seshat 