ACT I: Luck
What is a soul of anything? It cannot be defined,
And yet, it seems to be a thing that cannot be denied.
So long have humans now believed that souls may well exist,
A fitting end to every story, the most perfected twist.
Still, some would wager otherwise and tell us to beware,
That even if we can believe, we simply shouldn’t care,
As nothing could we ever find in something so eternal,
Not more than empty husks of words hidden in a journal.
Some would even dare to say that souls will die as well,
And that there will be nothing more, no heaven and no hell.
That all we are is simply this, this soul that makes us whole,
And nothing writes a human’s fate, nothing is our goal.
So, it seems that souls persist at least as an idea,
Bringing solace to the few, deadening the fear.
And I, myself, an honest fool, I try to not be coy,
For every true celestial being is bound by its own ploy.
As such I leave it all to luck, and hope that I belong,
I hope that I can venture on and that my soul is strong,
And even if it won’t exist when all my life is gone,
It will not matter anyway as I have long but won.