When they color,
The realms of this world,
With the brush of fate,
Fate being the brush occasionally,
It is with confusion,
That the mere mortals look upon it.
From here to the end,
Seeking Clarity,
Walked the old traveler,
For the time he never found.
Living all around,
Laughing while it does,
It was the mind,
That does the work,
To make it all work.