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The mirror is a simple device

But one that is generally filled with strife

I peeked at it once or thrice

Seeing nothing but the rolling dice

Snake eyes were unusually nice

Those spy into your heart of ice

Frozen like a stolen kite

By the wind into the night

Cut from my hand with a knife.

A gleam off that knife...

Reminded me of the night

That flew like a kite

Against a path of ice

You would have thought this was nice

Take a chance, roll this dice

Not once, but thrice

Look, with eyes of strife

Into that strange strange device

There are blows in life, so powerful... I don't know!

Blows as from the hatred of God; as if facing them, the undertow of everything suffered

welled up in the soul...I don't know!



They are few; but they are ...they open dark trenches

Inthe fiercest face and in the strongest back.

Perhaps they are the colts of barbaric Attilas;

Or the black heralds sent to us by Death.



They are the deep falls of Christs of the soul,

of some adored faith blasphemed by Destiny.

Those blood stained blows are the crackling of

bread burning up at the oven door.



And man... Poor... poor! He turns his eyes, as

When a slap on the shoulder summons us;

Turns his crazed eyes, and everything lived

Wells up, like a pool of guilt, in his look.



There are blows in life so powerful... I don't know!