The world – a cold, cruel place.
each day a test as we merge within the race;
with foggy brain and brimming eyes,
the trail askew, with crooks and hollows,
fails to hear our cries.
Then, just as all is felt for naught,
if luck bestows her glance,
a gentle cloud rains down – ah, yes,
and we begin to dance.
If all is spun with proper might,
catching the light in fortune’s face,
we do, all-in-all behold that gleam
casting out forever the inky night.