Living is a plaything,
a daily exercise with exception of perfection,
rather a falling and a rising
as everyday closer and closer to its end we gallop.

Living is an amusement,
a rollercoaster on mountains' circumferential highways,
a circuit of vertigo in endless spin,
that makes us laugh and cry in turning circles.

Living is a judgment,
a reminder of our sullen mortality and sacred immortality,
an umpire of fast and slow we jive and go,
and a roiling air that at dusk takes the bloom off our laughs.