As individuals, we are so meager,
Such insignificance, baseness— you see:
We chortle loftily at titan cedars,
Yet they fall, and death by tree.
Believing we are magnanimous,
The cardinal, the ace of spears;
But willows whisper, thus unanimous
Are mortals living upon spheres.
We have no say, in ebb and flow,
Yielding to depths of holy sea,
Or do we? Curb of tides forgo—
Still, innards and organs are free.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy,
But why, not sad or chagrined?
Our lion enfolds the unhappy,
And his innards rejoice with the wind.
He is loose, rebelling the fate
That the Gods so callously threw—
By creating meaning, he dares to dictate
That which Creator made new.
How would the stubborn, absurdist hero
Behave upon seeing Moirae?
In chains, he’d laugh from Hades’ window,
His scorn surmounting moray.