But Maker not so humble,
With which shall fall to crumble,
And be ought to start with flesh,
His sand that forms the mesh,

Casts him away distant and free,
Breathes life anew ere long he flee,
Hears his name for first ere forget,
Lasts while but changed lest in regret,

Whence learns to walk, learns to talk,
Hence yearns to bond, bears to sulk,
This life a spiked drink to drink
Where but ne walks towards brink,

Then looks away from world and self,
For to not effects a poor health,
Casts thus his face yonder light,
Steady breath and beat in fight,

Lapses and all memory he erased,
Turns to cold and sheathed disdain he faced,
His heart in sound all but gulp fall to place,
Binds eyes his dark torment bears in woe haste;

Thinks in silence of You, Maker;
How that I am created,
That knowing myself to destroy,
That knowing ye ought to take,

That serves the night in utter spite,
Then softly feels the ground in late,
Where once is she that dares to bite,
Is she that you and I in fate.

Category:
Civilisation, Life, Nature, Poetry, Works
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