Dirt

The dust does not know
Though it desires to grow
The stone that will be
Or the sand by the sea

Though it steps its course
And settles to bed
The wind at its source
Does what cannot be said

I have been young
And though I'm not old
I've seen the wise undone
And the righteous being sold

The steps of a man
Though he desires his way
Are moved by a hand
Like the waters at play

The clay does not make
Though it would be wise
The pot that will be
Or the mud that we see