VIII
THE PURPOSE OF LIFE

It was a flower torn from the tree by hail
and then a husk on the ground under the sun;
it rolled in the dust through the stubble
at the mercy of the changing wind.

The withered flower became humus
hidden underneath a prickly furze bush,
and during the course of a red sunset
was buried by a lowly worm. Out of this spell

arose a perfume which strives to reach
immortal heaven, a temple of calm
where there is neither hail nor falseness;

the body is more than just a container
of the mind; for the song it is a lyre,
and it is the purpose of life to become a soul.