Why have a common joy,
creature un-mourned when gone,
trifle of some yesterday in a country
Better none if there is truth to tell.
Living to be alive is not thrill.
Better grayness of cloud
slate colored lives and cone less eyes
None, no life, unless lived large, loud.
This was the argument Faust made
with that smirking shade
“I will live, and I will BE!
If not, do what you will with me.”
He would show that devil from hell
How life was to be lived and well
Who belittled lives not lived in heaven;
Challenge, taunting fiend, unleaving.
Wolves hunt Caribou relentlessly,
Across a thousand frozen miles,
Stand sentinel over them on the hills,
Plunge into each thick haunch with avid purpose
While the herds, like the rivers
they blindly cross
(Which have been crossed for centuries), plod
On to fly swarmed tundra
mere hunger driven hope their guard.
Renewing life above everlasting ice
their brief time un-dominated by night
cold wind cannot blast away
Common joy of life lived another day.