I have intended to live open-handed
My relaxed spine saluting heaven
And bowing low to no man.

Clutching no sorrow, no regret, no horror
Longer than a snowflake on an extended palm:
A thing I shan’t own- a thing to borrow.

Time is haggard, a poor braggart
Incurring debts he cannot cover,
Ever gambling as he staggers on.

The world is in arrears and cannot repay
Hope for fear, love for hate, or youth for the years
It has squandered away.

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