Weep not for Summer’s end,
For years will come,
Mourn instead for you wits,
That go to the worms one day.
This is the cold season,
When learning shows our vanity,
Knowing things by their absence alone,
A book of dead names.
Perceived functions of the flesh,
And what are hunger and desire,
But diversions from death.
Using frail structures to defy,
Tiny sparks to try to burn the sun,
Challenges unworthy of response,
The war cry of the sparrow. |