I lasted only as long as spume
the lips of waves spew onto a beach.
Born under no star into moonless gloom,
my very name was but a sputter, a screech.
From the epitaph in Père Lachaise:
Je n’aurai pas duré plus que l’écume
Aux lèvres de la vague sur le sable
Né sous aucune étoile un soir sans lune
Mon nom ne fut qu’un sanglot périssable
***
Rhyme in poetry shows how aleatory meaning is — though there is always a drift to get.
