What does life look like? Who’s to say how it appears? Is it the bud of a rose flower? Or the electric lighting strike? It may be the trees Which sway in the wind Or the wind itself Giving breath to the breeze It’s the laugh of a child It’s the tears that grief Marks on our faces It’s the sorrows, the boundings The fallings, the justice, the graces It’s the leaf as it crushes beneath a boot It’s the mighty blue mountain Whose stone is as a deep root How do you paint life in a portrait? Or make one understand That it’s not in the riches However they may be grand And it’s not in the blood That flows through these veins Nor the pulsing heart in each chest But simply a miracle of all ages Whose meaning one might never guess Until you look but deeper inside At the Hand which chisels the changes The One who made life So how would one sketch this? Or dare to say? Is life a flower, the sky The ant or a bird? There’s only one answer I’ve been able to find And that is that life is infinite A universe And yet it all came From a word.