O mole, I feel it’s in our fate,
although perhaps not in our plans –
an expiry of this our freight
as time removes its weight from sated
hands.
We’re loathe to empty out our crate
and leave these items to the sands.
To think how each and every trait
of things we’d make (or recreate
from former strands)
will vanish from this earthly slate,
along with us and our demands!
But these thoughts, too – they come too late.
And here we putter, here we prate -
a pair of also-rans.
Our lethargy becomes innate.
We watch the cosmos take its stands
and intermix its love and hate
apportioned out to small and great,
which gather into cosmic clans.
Forgive me, mole. This sudden spate
of sullenness is under bans!
Just slap me in my muddled pate.
A single slap should set me straight!
We’ll put it to the fault of wearied glands!