by Peter Saint-Andre

Endless cycle of the same —
Ever circling, no escape —
Like a lowly ant that plods
On a Moebius strip of fate.

And yet this notion spurs me on
To soar while still I have the chance,
To make my life a thing of gold
That shines out over time and space.

(cf. The Joyful Learning, ยง341)

Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Nietzsche