The death of literature - ah -
what never was life - oh -
hold the warm beads by the fire -
feed your heart now something more.
All things must live -
passing cannot change that -
the list of things to forget
grows larger every day.
It seems so easy to release one's grip -
until the will fails -
and decay alone opens the hand
to let nothing fly out like a bud.
The councils that watch this - with pillars and eyes -
are no more real than we are,
trying to live in homes we've built
- we pilgrims never lost.
