I feel sorry for the stars
Which have shined for so long,
So long, so long . . .


Is there not a weariness
Felt by things,
By all things,
Such as we feel in our limbs?

A weariness of existing,
Of being,
Just of being,
Whether sad or happy . . .

Is there not, finally,
For all things that are,
Not just death
But some other finality?
Or a higher purpose,
Some kind of pardon?