If life and love were simple
 and call met echo in return
 this language would be ample
 and song would lie unborn

 but keen and cry and sorrow
 reflect the loss and weight
 when balance is unequal
 to this eccentric state
 
 No steam, nor steel nor matter
 redress the fractured heart,
 nor word, not art, nor sympathy
 contend to salve or part
 
 So each within existence
 contrives to spoil or mend
 and lie in happy balance
 or the best they can pretend