Where We Will Go

So many deaths, so many corpses, so much havoc and so much ruins everywhere- perhaps walking upon them, we may reach the gate of our dream, after which remains the green room of success- and what after that? Tell, after that, where will we go? Only the hawks, the vultures and the kites fly in the vast blue sky. The hungry foxes cry on the life's high way. That cry fetches the white wild ugly crows in flocks. Men's ears cannot hear any more the songs of cuckoos. Men's eyes cannot see any more the green forests; only they see a burning hell with no trees, with no flowers. Perhaps crossing this hell, we will earn that success which is often uttered by our lips and souls- and what after that? Tell, after that, where will we go? In which success, there lies the blood of men; in which success, the civilization gets scattered, disabled and indigent; in which success, there rise the sufferings and disasters of men; in which success, innumerable corpses of men lie down upon the paths of the world; perhaps getting excited with that success, a long procession may be run on streets, or standing upon those corpses, a victorious anthem may be sung with pride- and what after that? After that, will we still remain the human race? After that, will we still bear the human minds within our hardest bosoms? Or will we, in the long run, become the two-legged detestable beasts?