Will we speak
As we seek
our own specific route?
Meandering in hazy suppositions
As black and white fade softly in the distance
Everything becomes the way it is
In spite of us and all our oppositions
Because of us, less often than imagined
Hoping for the best of what’s expected
Working out what may have been neglected
Count us in. Out. In.
Laughing with pure joy when we can
Until our turn is over,
jig is up,
bell has rung,
game is called.