39 The Soul on a Hill, Alex Call

The Soul on a Hill

Alex Call ‘23

A Soul bathed in brightness lies soft on a hill, It twiddles its thumbs—takes from Life what it will. It thinks about thinking, it dreams about dreaming. Briefly it wonders, Well, where is the meaning?

The clouds? No, they rain. The sun? Far too bright. Perhaps it is all merely dark cosmic night: A force of indifference, a will of the No, Or maybe the Yes—if fate deems it be so.

O’ Night, cruel old master! What game do you play, When Time in its hurry shall come but not stay? And if nothing is whither and nothing is whence Then why even bother to try and make sense?

—Oh but see how the birds chirp, aperch in their nest! And mother and father hold child abreast, And flowers abloom in the thickets unfold Under the sunset like rivers of gold.

If this is the nothing, is nothing so bad? Perhaps the Soul’s purpose is just to be glad: To witness the beauty that Life has in store And not to waste time vainly wishing for more.

But it’s sad, nay it’s mad—no, it’s glad! Just be glad! It tries but it cries and now everything dies. It sees all around it in steady decay, And weeps hollow breaths as it dreams of what may Be in the Will-be, the Was, or the Now: The love and the loss of what Life may allow, A dutiful reaper collecting his wages, A meadow of candlelight, lost to the ages.

It fears and it frets, no! It steadies its breath— In out, up down, Beat beat, thump thump.

It closes its eyes, rests a hand on its heart, Neither ready to end, nor ready to start

Juliana Bernal ‘25