What kind of purpose do you have in life?
Many people do not seem to know this.
Some prefer an existence ruled by strife.
Other’s long for lover’s embrace or kiss.
Corpses pile trying to understand.
Book by book written, left from long ago.
Many travel far from rough, distant lands.
They hail from places made of frost and snow.
Scientist by Scientist they gather.
Meeting after meeting on this matter.
Rooms become filled up with pointless blather.
Year after year, they don’t seem to scatter.
But they don’t seem to get the point I make:
You can’t tell man what he is for his sake.