My soul is a bell, a tolling of sorrows
and joys, a ringing in of new years
and old sighs, for each turn towards
joy always commands a swing back

to sorrow.  Sometimes I do not see
the rope here in my hands; other
days I fail to grasp it firmly enough,
this soul of mine, and it careens

out into the blue sky, mourning 
a song all its own, as if it didn't 
know I would immediately yank it 
back to this body so firmly planted 

in the soil of earth.  So I apologize 
to my soul, and tell it I do indeed
recognize that my main task is to shine
it up, like one would polish and polish

bronze, and I claim I am always
in search of a proper chamois to
buff and buff it as I cart it through
our journey, knowing there will

come a day when it will sing out
with a voice all its own, cured 
and mellowed by my toils, sing
and sing of how I must die and die,

both of us happy at last, I trust.