A re:framing of
The Fly
by William Blake
Little fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
*
[public domain]
What on earth
Was that great beast?
Out of nowhere,
Expected least.
Another fly
Or human I?
A life, knowing
Not who or why?
You enjoy your
Days, their good gift.
Until the hand
Of death does lift.
I think, I think.
Do not forget.
To think, I think,
Dispels regret.
Are you, like me,
Happy to die?
Or do you want
To soar, to fly?
