A howling screech comes from the West
As change brings new form to the idolized frame;
With menaced and hatred the eerie soul
Drops rays of grief and misery on seedless fruits
And my self rots, buried in a pile of decay,
Ready to be burned and taken aloft;
Then is it true that we are alien to each other:
No woman for a man, no man for a woman
One to hold and care—no my arms are bare
Why does anxiety come so quickly but
Leave in no fast hurry?
The panicking, the lamenting, the grieving—
What does it all amount to?
In darkness, a beacon of light comes to no man
For once he has left this mortal coil,
He won’t feel anything;
Alas, it seems sadness gives more pleasure to my soul
Than any happiness I could receive from Death;
What a shame that is—a cold warmth to consolidate my fate.