Some say life is but a cherry,

Some say it's but nothing at all.

Some find life in all that's buried,

Others hang them on the wall.

And the way that we are merry,

And the way we forgot to share

All those play toys on the ferry,

All the ones left at the fair.

They say the soul is pure in Constance,

Others speak but get nowhere.

Others say there is no such Constance,

Others speak but get no ware.

But I'm sure there is a pathway

Leading from here up to the stars.

But I'll wonder when we're halfway,

What of all the wasteful scars?

All those people who dreamed of wonders,

All those who dreamed at all-

Some have lived only in blunder,

Others lived not at all.

And the scars which man does carry,

When they're laid down at last-

Will one face reflect the marry

Of the present to the past?