My life-deeds that I held within my hand
Trickled away like bleached-white, desert sand.
Like trying to hold clear water in your fist:
Achievements vanish like the morning mist.
Reach up and try to grasp a falling star –
It flares, then disappears. That’s how things are.
To face great odds – is racing with the breeze:
You’ll lose. The odds will trump you – and with ease.
My life works crumble. All I’ve built down-crashes
Meeting destruction. All I’ve left is: ashes.