When the Whippoorwill Sings

On a day that the whippoorwill sings A man in his hands before the creator brings A foregone virtuous life he thought, enough to tilt the weights in his favor. But the deity’s face that he sought, Proved to be for naught. For this God in life he did not savor. On the day that the whippoorwill sung, The hands of a second mortal, before God brung, a life of opulence and mirth. A life in his eyes that contained much worth. But in God’s eyes a life of futility. And so the mortal was distressed, At his perpetual life of jest. and in his face, the deity found no validity. On the day that the whippoorwill cooed A third gentleman with prestige accrued Appeared before the divine sphinx. He shouts, “through me many knew you.” But the deity he himself did not pursue. And from the cup of death the gentleman now drinks. There is a place in the ground, For which every soul is bound. What will your hand bring, When you hear the Whippoorwill sing?