Small moving points of light,
They flit here and there, a thousand of them,
If I look at them right,
Otherwise I can see only the sky,
Clouds, birds, towers and planes,
Back again and I notice hazy streaks,
Like a falling ooze I just cannot name,
Which of these visions turn out to be real?
Which should guide my actions?
Neither are in a world that I can touch,
Or know in some fashion,
But I must act,
As each person 'fore me,
Their existence mattering just as thoughts,
Pale copies of what they themselves did see.