To see the future in the present past
Has been a strange obsession in my mind.
Within the womb of night, Fate's die is cast,
And life unfolds, its creatures swarming blind
In fast frenetic symphony of sound
And sight and touch and smell. Life is the end
Unto itself. Our world revolves around
So many things we see not, nor command.
Why should I wish it so? Why hope to grasp
The final pages of my fatal script?
Would it so greatly please my mind to clasp
The truth there? Though I often feel adrift,
I know that life is play and play is seeking.
Why spoil the fun with rude, untimely peeking?
George Chadderdon © 1998