The Will has a place at the table reserved for the Was.
Just as the Cannot walks hand-in-hand with the Does.
Within me are faces I wear without,
Masks that are worn in matters of doubt.
But even a current can flow during times of drought.
Tell us the story, but leave out the singular me.
Sing us the melody of the definable we.
We Dig in the Dirt by the light of the torch,
While bathing at night in the Waters of March,
Bringing together the hand, the head, and the heart.
Chorus:
I'm of foolish as much as I am of the wise,
Maternal as well as paternal in kind,
Of a child as much as I am of a man,
Stuff'd with the stuff that's both coarse and fine.
Ask me of shades and I'll tell you of radiant hues.
Imagine my voice is a Mediterranean blue.
Consider my shape with its corners & sides,
A center as vast as the ocean's tides.
Gaze at our moon and you'll only see one side.