It is not so much the amplitude, as it is the duration;
Not the blade’s unyielding point, but the grinding stone.
It is not so much the first drop, as it is the next;
Not what one cannot do, but what one must.
It is not so much the torrent, as it is the canyon;
Not the notes the orchestra plays, but those it does not.
It is not so much the heat, as it is the mirage;
Not the tide when the moon is full,
But the fourteen hundred waves that break each day.
We have known these things all too well.
We have felt such knowledge in our bones.
But if time is acceptable, ever or now,
From whence will come our salvation?
Pain is as garish as a tempest on the sea;
Suffering slinks deep beneath the surface.
He feeds there daily on all our detritus;
He has no known predators or kin.
He comes, it has been said,
From Being-in-the-World-as-Such.
We have no more right to be here than does he.
And we will meet him, each in stride,
In the cold, dark marshes of Chronos.
If he swallows you whole you will learn at last
The price of precious pearl of life.