What is a body – really, though?
A shelter for my soul,
A humble slave or faithful friend,
An importunate foe?
What thing to wield, my pulsing flesh,
My spirit’s solid vessel,
My will to own and to command
For good or wicked evil.
The more real things of this bright life,
Like Self and God and Love –
Come, what have they to do with such
As limbs, lips, hair, and thumbs?
What mystery, yet, the mingling of
What’s real and what is seen.
How strange their collision, gaping gulf.
Their marriage, war. Their link.