I Consider a Road to Travel

With luck you'll live a hundred years,

Enough to harvest ten centuries' griefs.

Remember? The very day your fever broke,

Your son sneezed your sneeze, and his son coughed.

You blacken your nails testing the rooted soil,

Risk your neck dusting the highest mulberry.

All your good deeds weigh your balance down, down

Into the grave, and something, perhaps, like rest.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Jul/Aug 2003
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