The future plagues the present mind
As, like the past, it snatches thought,
Convinced that if we try to find
The maybes we can. We cannot.
For, of the past, our hands are stained
And nothing can be changed into
Whatever meaning we abstained
To place where'er else was in lieu.
Yet what has yet is also stone,
For what will be will be in time.
No matter how we shriek and groan
We will or won't commit new crime.
Our paths are fixed; our wills are free
Your hope in you, and mine in me.