Inconstancy of every second punishes me. The wind, the rain, the clouds, the days, I try to grasp the hours but they banish me, And I remain in the vortex of incongruity. The lone coyote shrieks, Startling my soul into wakefulness. The Cacti bloom and the Wren beckons, Deepening my mind into dreamlessness. And the moments spend time with inconstancy, increasing the ease of uneasiness. Why this daily pilgrimage of ideas? When no saint has ever ceased the day! Still yearning for some magic hour, Where nothing but permanence dwells. Alas, only this thought be the only truth, That certainty in death is constant. And so, in every second, minute, hour, our only gain is memory. Be it bitter or sweet: it is ours! Rejoice.