The mind is made of cobwebs
frail strands of truth hang limply there
and billow softly in the air:
who is it to deceive?
The mind is made of cobwebs
the dewdrops cling as sad regrets
the insects hang as unpaid debts:
who can of choice conceive?
The mind is made of cobwebs
its strands are all our histories
that billow into mysteries:
who can our faith retrieve?