What do we take, and what are we granted?
What wishes we make that we wouldn’t want granted -
The baby is crying like the ocean is sanded;
you couldn’t have known how it would be, granted -
It isn’t quite grace, and it isn’t quite habit,
It isn’t the vision that you thought you’d been granted
Each day has its joy, and each day has its panic,
but which do we take, and which are we granted?
(I have no idea what this ghazal is about.)
