I found this poem at a busy intersection, where the signal lights were confused, the drivers seemed to be (mostly) unaware of the intersection at all, and as I consequence I nearly was run over half a dozen times. The poem, which was written on the back of a crumpled boarding pass, was lightly dusted with sand. I have a deep suspicion that the author is either dead, or will not complain if I publish it here.
Destiny
Whether in joyous love or thirsty hate,
to be consumed, we yearn.
Not for the cold ground and touching cold gold, are the God-children born.
No, if there is one thing I trust for certain,
one thing I have learned;
in the heights of heaven or the depths of hell,
men were made to burn.
Destiny
Whether in joyous love or thirsty hate,
to be consumed, we yearn.
Not for the cold ground and touching cold gold, are the God-children born.
No, if there is one thing I trust for certain,
one thing I have learned;
in the heights of heaven or the depths of hell,
men were made to burn.
