Dèr Mouw in uncharacteristically depressed mood about the purpose of existence

An insect seaward-swept from flowery home

has slid into the water from the wind:

a fish’s fin-beat downwards sucks it in,

a sea-gull’s wing-beat skims it off the foam;

a single skyward-whirled small grain of sand

lets torn limbs painfully sink by degrees;

and surging in from grey infinities

the current dumps it, dead, back on the land.

In life’s indifference I drift, apart –

its balance making me now trough now peak –

through thinking, feeling, striving vainly seek

the unknown that's steered my actions from the start,

and Someone, Something that I could forgive

the burden of the pointless life I live.