It is a scoundrel fact
That there are ends
To things that never
See their own beginnings;
That things can die
Before they are born
Into the process of dying.
It is a melancholy truth
That nothing is known
For sure,
That sunrises are merely the preludes
To sunsets.
Alas,
The mountains tremble
In ignorance of their
Firmness.
As do we,
In ignorance of our God.
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