We are dead a long while,
And life is just an adjunct,
Lost in the terror of the living.
For there are memories
Cold and absolute,
Where all that live,
Scurry back to die.
And light slows, becoming torpid
Where the stars reflect morbidity,
And the masses wail,
Though they never understand,
Or understood their calamity.
What is the purpose of the swaying bough,
Or the sweet songs of the rustling trees.
Why are you so blinded by your monotony
To see beyond your grief.
Life does not offer platitudes
Wrapped in the sensuous puffing of the soul,
But rather it is in its diffusion,
Allows us to perceive its simplicity.
Yet we are dead a long while,
And the silver beads of winter
Frown on the snowy vine,
Knowing the sad secrets
Of the grave and the loss,
We must endure.