Neither white nor black, Nor pockets full of immortality: If only a shot of something fresh

Neither white nor black, Nor pockets full of immortality: If only a shot of something fresh For ordinary heirs of the great inheritance. We're closer to the half-tones of grey, Behind the mercury of a blue sky, In swells against the cliffs of time Our whole life churns And vanishes in an instant. And our enormous, bright souls In small awful bodies Desperately tear outward, Without faking the moment — As a hard lesson, a stamp They'll walk through still soft New hearts.