Are we not all mere’ dirty water, flowing downhill through separate streams of chance to the common gutter of one deep Was-dale? Is not every life a trudge through a Hellvelyn gale, sleet, and some foul December’s hail
hearts heavy with the past, eyes blinded with the morrow’s grief
each step but a fleeting gain…

The path to the summit often lost to the senses down in the darkest ghyll, trickling backwards from whence we first emerged from a mother’s pain;
her gift of life a father’s salty drain.

Each discharge of wriggling fluids spawning death for a future
following a lifetime of pain for every past.
Every coming, another’s going,
one way or another
nothing lasts.