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Our well-worn hopes we bring
To life, that beautiful cacophony.
An orchestra still tunes its strings;
We long for more than prophecy.

To life, that beautiful cacophony,
We come with desperate cry.
We long for more than prophecy
And dread the day we die.

We come with desperate cry
For wealth, significance, and fame,
And dread the day we die
And have to give them back again.

For wealth, significance, and fame
Will sprout and fade like grass;
To have to give them back again
Our hearts can hardly grasp.

We’ll sprout and fade like grass
For now — that splendid final movement,
Oh, our hearts can hardly grasp! — 
Somnolent, weary, and sweetly spent.

For now, that splendid final movement’s
Orchestra still tunes its strings.
Somnolent, weary, and sweetly spent,
Our well-worn hopes we’ll bring.

Originally posted as part of the Passing Pantoums collaborative poetry project, which I hosted on Chalkboard this month. I borrowed a pair of lines from Rachel B. Baxter's Pantoum for the End of SummerPhoto by Pexels (public domain).

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