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Elegy Philosophy Poems | Elegy Poems About Philosophy

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Details | Elegy | |

I FOLDED MY MOTHER UP

I Folded My Mother Up

I folded my mother up
Into a creased peace of paper 
Folding memories into intentions.
Flattening the dementia of unstructured emotions
Into a neat, file-able document.

We  arc this abyss;  tightening ropes  over time.
We are not our worst intentions, 
but we are the acts that follow.
Like clobbering footsteps tripping over 
broken pavements of Being.

We are the not sum of our categories 
or the crimes that we have witnessed
But we are the balance 
That keeps us falling forwards without stumbling
Over our own shoelace sense of time.


Details | Elegy | |

Stranger


My heart egos and my life drained from me
Simple life I live, I act as I know all
But I know not, no, not even a little
I earnestly seek for recognitions
But my life and my heart is a hole.
An empty vessel, soulless, loveless

I have been succumb by the pain of heart aches
I have become a broken man,
Know not what my future holds
I envy those who went before me, who were acknowledge

I hold on to the little shred of hope in me, 
I am being drowned by my own sorrows.
Love, hate, a new beginning and ending of my old self never seems to happen
My wrath against my enemies is nothing for they humor me with insults.
Let not death come to me in misery and despair, 
For life is full of joy and full of sorrows.

Love me, as who would love a stranger from nowhere.
Let my sorrows be taken away by the love of many
But at last, no one would.
Don’t cry for me, for no one knows me
They came before my grave and said “who is this man?”
“Why is the name not written?”
It is not written because I am nothing
Don’t shed a tear for the stranger such as me.

Life is like a dream on a calm sea,
As the captain gracefully steer and gently moves its rudder.
The passenger puts their lives in his hands,
A calm sea is the heaven of any sailor.
“So, where is my captain?”
The wind blows every so gently,
But my heart sinks gently into the sea;
Who will mourn for the stranger?

Drowned from my grief, 
My faith begins to waver like a ship tossed around by the winnowing wind
My heaven, my calm sea turns against me as I sail the Galilean sea
“Where are thy words that calm the raging storm?”
Ay! I have no peace even in my passing.
I have not thy words of command,
For my faith has been tossed away by the hating winds,  
Shallow, empty, and broken I lay here in an unnamed grave.

Only thy mercy will guide me to the third heaven!
Let my sorrows be washed away by the blood of the innocent lamp.
Let thy words be the honey drops for mine, 
As this world knows only lies
Blinded by greed and lust, 
They seek only to destroy of what they fear.
And my sorrows are tossed away by thy promises.
For thy compassion for lost sheep is great.

"Have I found peace?"
I have, for I know my heart is at rest when my body has aged
And my salvation has come
When I died with thy Words of truth


Details | Elegy | |

Fool's Gold

At first most of us dint know, only those before us
Even those before us were ones like us, but they learn t by force 
We all thought it was real, that is how we feel.
Now they are coming, they are using the same path we took in getting here, oh! they will
It was the same with them, even with those before them.
Now it is the same with us, it will be the same with even those after us
I wish it were possible, and I wish it is possible to say;
"Loan me your eyes let me see for you''
''loan me your mind let me understand for you''
''Loan me your leg let me walk for you''
In this way, you will see, know and realize it IN TIME. 
But no... that's just the way
They never, we never, and they will never realize it is a fool's Gold
Until when they are almost [if not] sold.


Details | Elegy | |

Where are you

You flourished and blurred
like a spark on wind

Gracefully and quickly like a frightened hind
in pursuit of light

You harvested through bushy meadows
taken by blight

In struggle with plight
had you lost your might

And gave out
although never you gave up.

Where are you?
For you must be still there.

For I still can feel you
somewhere in the air.


Details | Elegy | |

THE INCARNATE

 On a day never unseen
 when our souls are called to rest
 And our bodies returned to dust
 From whence they came
 Whether burdened with age
 Or unable to cross life's next stage
 If in bed we Lia in wait
 Or by force others do take

 On a day not unforeseen
 When the key to our creation
 Unlocks the door to mans destruction
 And all hope in life, LOST...!
As men have always been half
 in love with death

 Cyclically life and death move
 For death brings us sorrow
 But a day would come we will all follow
 And when again life is gone
 In new bodies we shall be born

 In whom evil dominates
 A lower being regenerates
 In whom good prevails
 A pure soul avails


Details | Elegy | |

A Fine Frenzy

 The word is born of wind and water
 Of winters white and long
 The shape and form of ode and image
 The air of breath and song

 Bending like a willow branch
 Casting wicked spells
 Twisting like a wounded tree
 Fed by holy wells

 Giving birth to magic verse
 Bound by hill and vale
 Burning like a fated curse
 Reversed by force of gale

 The word is born of craft and guile
 Of trickery and vice
 Of witchery and cunning wiles
 Of sage and wise advice

 Of rolling waves and winding vines
 Of guarded healing springs
 Of wild woods and blood red wine
 And the roar of beating wings

 Written by © Raven Drake


Details | Elegy | |

The desert was a beach.

I stood by the periphery… 
gracelessly doling derivative remarks 
(all that is rhetorical in rhetoric and blatant in denial) 
upon my comrades, the dust shot Sandinistas of midsummer masochism, 
the caliphs of ‘Baltic Bay’.  
“The armistice laid flowers upon 
the salt seasoned lip of the hatch-backed hawk…” 
Blood fell passively between his heartbroken legs, 
siphoned from each and every available pore; 
the oxygenated irony of pneumatic Gnosticism: 
“The desert was a beach.” 
They say that war is a catalytic catharsis, a palatial reprieve,
without languid logic or porous rationality, 
the emancipation of masculinity, 
castrated by the wire… 
I thought it was hell… I was taught to think otherwise… 
The torrential shards of verbal promiscuity 
stole light unto the fore, 
anxiously negotiating 
the parochial labyrinth of incandescent egotism, 
intrinsically denied.  
Rare, poached howitzers… laden with anxiety 
bore slight from the barbed-wire battalion 
of ill-fitting idiots, 
shuffling their feet, settling their nerves, 
sealing their fate with 
slack pot meandering midst snip sniped surprise.
“The technicality of principalities, dukedoms and deceit, 
tune the tuneless melody and save your soul from hate. “ 
Their calibre unknown, their reasons unfounded… 
the calypso calling cantaloupes of entrepreneurial acumen 
shot black with dusk… slid unto the night. 
Corporal rationale: “Half an hour of ambiguity…” 
Lieutenant liquidation: “Twenty minutes of woe…” 
Collective privacy: “Ten minutes of philistine philanthropy…”
Collective piracy: “Five minutes of... … ….” 
Towel clenched soviets, eager and resentful, 
scape-goaded the photographic horde into meagre submission… 
subverting the course of justice. 
Rented Kalashnikovs rattled ravenous replies… 
once, twice, three times a corpse… 
“Androgyny and xenophiles, the pasteurised provocateur… 
draped in Prada propped dynamics, mechanically aware…”   
Desiccant faeces flew five feet into the air; 
the aluminium gilded lavatories received the short end of the stick, 
figuratively emasculated… 
literally liquidated within (without) the… humdrum humidity. 
Gabriel dictated the proceedings. 
The abortive restraint of sycophantic silencers 
and Hassidic hallucinations, 
graced by a political patriarchy… 
urinating upon the synthetic soil.

     

 

    


        


Details | Elegy | |

Land of the Free

Oh, Land of the Free 
You have presumptuously deemed yourself the mouthpiece and policy maker 
Of the world
How overconfident
How impudent
Who makes you... 
                          Oh, King of impertinence
Regulators of the human race...
                                                         The monarch of the agitated sea
Who are you to dictate MY household’s wishes? 
As with the Roman Empire, your greed and moral deficiency IS your destruction
Your sins are hidden behind plaster, ramshackle, and termite-infested walls  
You sit on your throne of deprecated morality
You twist your neck and roil your head in an idiomatic cistern of ethics
Oh, how those merchants whom seek shelter under your fiscal confidence...
                             Will wail and rip their outer garments, as they witness your
great 
Collapse
Nevertheless, just like men whom seeks the warmth of a harlot’s bosom
They will easily turn their face to the next woman of ill-gotten gains


Details | Elegy | |

What a Beauty-Full Life

Beauty is in flowers, and the petals
Bathing in the early morning dew

Beauty is in the eyes of a father
When his son takes the first step

Beauty is on the face of a baby,
Sleeping in mother’s lap

Beauty is in freedom,
When you fly high on the wings of hope

Beauty is in the expressions of a poor man
When he gets food after eternity

Beauty is in the pride of a teacher
When his student supersedes

Beauty is in the compassion of a devotee
When he finds solace

Beauty is in the innocence of a child
When he asks you questions

Beauty is in the sips of laughter,
You share with your friends

Beauty is in the springs of desire
that arrive after a prolonged autumn

Beauty is in the cry of a woman,
Whose womb succeeds

Beauty is in the silence,
When you don’t speak, and you say a lot

Beauty is in the warmth of passion
That builds around the arms of a lover

Beauty is when those small fights,
End with tears of joy

Beauty is when the first raindrop,
Kisses your cheek

Beauty is in perseverance,
When the world’s showing off

Beauty is in the enigma,
When everything’s certain

Beauty is in a poem,
Where poetry meets prose

Beauty is in little chunks of life,
Filled with joys and sorrows

Beauty is in your eyes,
your heart, and in every single breath

Beauty is when you say,
“What a Beauty-Full Life...”


Details | Elegy | |

Baton

Baton Within Baton is a scroll The teachings of a life. The scribe of history The makings of who you are today. Bestowing elegance, discovery and comfort. Air between the reeds brings a Mother’s peace. A smile, a soft gesture, conveys a Father’s direction. Coalescing fibers link a Crest. Stand tall. Accept the honor of Lineage. Begin your history. Begin your scroll. A well orchestrated pass Hand to Hand Baton has been delivered.


Details | Elegy | |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 1)

I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes
Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood.
I groom myself with exquisite things,
Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself
And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze

I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse
Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn.
Mosques are being slammed
There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber
Even God judges on evidence
There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow
A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence
Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding
And I write.

Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies
They are alive now. Soon they will be dead
From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown
Ghosts of curfew
Haunt the houses for young souls.

From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness
Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves
A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave.
I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep
While my Kashmir is ablaze
“It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”.
I see him so alive in my dreams.
He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails.
I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques
He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene
“Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state.
Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.”
I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood.
His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots
The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more.

On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail.
Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones.
For bullets there will be stones
Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones.
In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out
Death is recruiting in dozens at a time.
Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass.
How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity
People burn up all you identity cards.


Details | Free verse | |

History's Elegy--a paeon to monism

Slipping through the fingers of my mind,
all those vague perceptions 
of the "I" inside this body
will provide a strange parade 
behind the mirror of my life.

If I have learned from growing old,
the fallacy of endless plodding
from one victory until the next--
celebrating notches carved
down to  that last bouquet upon my grave,  
then  it's no journey after all,
but an immersion into truth.

Make of the day, the captaincy of night,
a starship  traveling from light to light
when time is one.  Let wonder settle in
where hammer blows are dieing.
Stand off upon the crest of doubt
and watch creation groan, 
a universe in manifest;
see the one, the present moment 
coalescing in our hands,  
for that is where the glory lies.
That is where the resurrection waits,
and only there beside the hidden God
the Alleluias ring.
                    ~


Details | Elegy | |

Elegy for Triangles and Squares

A science teacher (of all people) taught me
that triangles and squares were once in unity
they were lines that cosied together
like a fistful of newly risen feathers

But the triangle became infatuated
with the wedge between two numbers
on a clock and it graduated

The square crushed crazily 
on the symmetrical corners of a box
and grew three more lines fatally

a mathematician congratulates the tringle and square
for their courageous transformation- they cannot compare
a philosopher considers 
that the shapes could get the jitters
a romanticist mourns the loss of two lines
who were as interlocked as vines


Details | Elegy | |

Pro War Fantasy

Let's hear them yell, cheer, and shout!
 Watch them pray for it with passionate hearts

Body count reaching eight thousand, but who cares?
 Mass trauma infliction, but who cares?


You can hear their excitement from miles away.
 Endless occupation is their Christmas wish

The long contained desire for scorched earth...
 Is that what they cherish in a mother's prayer?

Fifty years in and still squealing for more
 Nothing brings them comfort, but a bloodthirsty war


Details | Elegy | |

Stay with me

Nowhere
you are
for
Nowhere
I see you

Nowhere
you are
for
Nowhere
I hear you

So where
you are
for
you must be
Somewhere

You still exist
for 
I still miss you

Thy sight
comes
to me
by memory

Somewhere
you are
for
Somewhere
I see you

Somewhere
you are
for
Somewhere
I hear you

So where
you are
for
you are
Nowhere

Please
stay with me
for
I need thee

for
a mere
unit am I
without an ally

Nowhere
you are
Wherever
I need you

Please
let
I feel
you are
nearby

Let
I believe
you are
far
from Nowhere
close
to Somewhere

Let
I believe
you are


Please
stay with me

somewhere
anywhere
beyond

I need thee.


Details | Elegy | |

An Act Of Brevity

Penicillin quailing child; 
Peculiar eyes, charcoal ides, 
Distance drawn upon denial; 
Penicillin quailing child. 
… … … … … … … .
Sincerity is the absence of imagination. 


Details | Elegy | |

Anyhow:

we always lack 
the better word, 
a polite reply or 
broken sword,
with which to pray, 
for better men, a better day, 
within to end, 

for as we fall upon the truth, 
our better words will be of use,
in truth, we say, we will agree, 
to end our search,
for words we need… 


Details | Elegy | |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 2)

Another son is dead, until five he lived.
For his long life at Shah-Hamdan he had threads tied
“Shehij ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale”, his mother cries.
No news can penetrate across the mountains. Satellites work here no more
My Kashmir burns. And no one knows.
An old woman with torn scarf sits besides fire. While feeding her neighbor’s child
She sighs. Is my son dead or alive? She silently cries.
In Madrasa I hear children reciting Quran. A girl’s come out dragging her feet.
I remember her from somewhere. I remember her seeing naked. 
Oh! God she is the one who was raped.

Nights have turned pitch black. My eyes are losing the habit of sight
Midnight soldier’s set another house ablaze. At least there is some sort of light.
Many letters have been written to God. Postcards posted of those raped girl’s 
But its curfew again. No post office deliver’s the message again.
Death comes from everywhere. Close your windows mother
For bullet respects no womb. It turned Gulistans into tombs.
From the plains the visitors come to visit their God’s
They are our only witnesses but hypocrites at heart.
They say paradise is kaasmir. While my Kashmir is ablaze
They testify against us. Is anybody witnessing this? No one at all
Be witness to at least this. Open up your eyes my Lord!

When paradise is painted with colors of hell, certainly divinity loses its grace
In the news the reporter is beaten. Bamboo sticks are hungry for human blood.
Let Kashmir go to hell. A new promise in their portfolio.
Threads have given up at Dastegeer’s place. Even they are horrified at our fate.
In Maisuma boys are dragged by police. They close their dreams, end their screams
In a police gypsy.
Men shape into monsters when they are given right to anarchy.
The gypsy drives them into the dark cantonments. They will remember this day
Interrogation officer comes. After celebrating his son’s birthday.
The winds from the cantonments bring their news
Burned tires around their necks. Burning stoves near their heads.
The knife tearing up their flesh.
And the boys cry, “We haven’t batted yet. Cricket. We know nothing”.

Death wants children to be headlines
Hunger has affected the heavens as well.
Graves are full. No more space left.
We need land of the plains. For our graves.
In the ac car the bureaucrat goes. The mother’s with search full eyes
Ask about their sons they lost. They drink their tears
And he sips champagne.


Details | Elegy | |

If I Were A Poet

Just an ounce of that snakebite I took;
I feel better now -- I can write. 

My thoughts are inking out,
oozing out of the dry heart with efforts, 
Like an 'would-be' mother pushing her baby out. 

A little ounce of that stuff --
That made my head turning gyroscopically
Making heaven and earth messy --
Like a top, spinning in indistinguishable colors. 

Just a little ounce of that stuff --
That made me bold and write shamelessly.

Am I impulsive;
Am I a poet? 


'Misconception', should I call it.
A poet is not grown out of the rubbish pile 
Of impulsive words. 

A poet is a civilization in itself;
An insightful glance into seeing what others miss out. 
He/ she knows the science of writing
That dips down into the human hemisphere 
Of raw ingredients, forming life and history. 

Poetry is a diary of wisdom,
Rejects fantasy and reforms life.

So, I simply wish --I were a poet?


Details | Elegy | |

When words mean nothing

How to abate the loathing
When words mean nothing?

There are moments
In human existence

When
Any resistance
against baleful fate
is futile.

When
One is left
with his thoughts
Forsaken 
by all gods

Astonished immensely
by the world vile
which first
gave him birth
and now
devours him
with mirth

Agonizes he
in every spot
on the Earth

Where does his heart belong to
Never will he learn

How to console such a man
When all words would burn?

How to abate the loathing
When words mean nothing?


Details | Elegy | |

THE INCARNATE

 On a day never unseen
 when our souls are called to rest
 And our bodies returned to dust
 From whence they came
 Whether burdened with age
 Or unable to cross life's next stage
 If in bed we Lia in wait
 Or by force others do take

 On a day not unforeseen
 When the key to our creation
 Unlocks the door to mans destruction
 And all hope in life, LOST...!
As men have always been half
 in love with death

 Cyclically life and death move
 For death brings us sorrow
 But a day would come we will all follow
 And when again life is gone
 In new bodies we shall be born

 In whom evil dominates
 A lower being regenerates
 In whom good prevails
 A pure soul avails


Details | Free verse | |

Philosopher's Elegy

Prof. Twittie died from an
experiment; like and unlike Socrates, he intentionally
took hemlock, to see how the afterlife looks like

He intended to return
to the physical world after his
observations, which he didn't

For a century now, no one following
Prof. Twittie’s school of thought
has yet dared to take poison,
in order to return with Prof. Twittie
back to the physical world,
and finally conclude their findings
in pen and print


Details | Elegy | |

Elegy for Heidi

Elegy for Heidi 
            I
The clock ticks away.
But there is no layer of time 
and no decision to make. 
            II
I have been jaywalking 
on the edge of the roof
for the last few weekends;

down below the grass looks
already dark, depressed,
as if death has made it.

then a bird, a simple 
blackbird sits on the bough.
It cries out and a hand

rises from the green earth
like a bride waking from
her bridal night, gleaming.

I know, I know, I know, 
we are all life’s disciples.
             III
“Come on, wake up!”
“My God, you are from East.
It is
Still night here.” She said.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar 


Details | Elegy | |

Last Resort

Imagine
a barren desert:
dry,
deprived of life,
where one would be sent
only in their worst nightmare.

This is a place 
where 
one's body and soul 
would surely die
This is a place
where 
drought
has deprived you of tears
- you no longer can cry,
the last hope for thee
is to find some water
- there is none,

No matter how hard you try,
there is no hope for thee
- you are losing your life.

What is left for you
is turning into stone:
your spirit
- dehydrated,
your flesh
- dried to the bone.

There is no help for thee,
you are here alone
willing to return home,
but all hope is gone.

There is nothing left,
but one strength -
thy last resort,
yet it demands 
thy effort,
the very last feeling
not letting your life
give in,
it is your will of living,
to live
for the people whom you love.


Details | Free verse | |

Elegy to the Passing Parade

Sometimes it does exasperate--
Around you, people tend to die,
just when you're catching on
to why they're there.

You want to plug into their minds
and stir a bit--discover inner dreams
and find some parallel inquiry
that otherwise would simply drift away, 
too readily abandoned,
by a faithless lethargy.

Not surprising, I suppose,
for I will do the same.
Amid identical frustrations;
they still die, and immortality
alone assumes its truth, but only
on the shores of fantasy, 
and then the moment dawns
when mortal irony will have its day
and on the morning tide
a stunning revelation born anew
is swept away.
           ~


Details | Elegy | |

-Beauty,In It's Death Throe's-

All that Beauty
meticulously arranged
it's luxuriant bounty
profusely displayed.

All that Beauty
of natural,blending colors
it's once emanating glory
now flaunted, floral fading aura's

All that Beauty
plucked, in silent objectivity
it's short lived, earthly sojourn
as Flowers set in coffin'd urn. 


Details | Elegy | |

The Grandfather You'll Never Know

I remember how I cried
The day my father died.
The doctor laid the blame
When he said that cancer came:
Lymph nodes, lungs,
Philosophy of Carl Jung,
Words of explanation
For everything, no blame,
Too late for shame.

The final service was long.
I tried to be strong.
But the stench of red carnations
Can still fill my imagination,
People’s faces,
Words of the Lord’s graces.
Planted in a peaceful lawn,
For the shell of this world is gone,
Yoked into heavenly bliss.
But, when I think of him
There's so much we missed.

I remember how I’ve sighed,
Thinking of my dad with pride.
I’d sit on his knee
My ear to his chest,listening to him hum,
And he’d give me his pennies for free.
He would mow, I’d sweep,
Then we’d have a snow cone treat.
Poles, bait bucket, tackle box,
Days we spent fishing from piers and docks.

Hair black like Elvis’,
Ears and features like Clark Gable’s,
Loud animated stories
Of his oil company job,
At the dinner table.
Fedora, big pleated trousers,
A pocket watch on a chain,
When I close my eyes
I can see him again.

I look in the mirror and can see his eyes,
Staring back at me in an eternal guise.
He didn’t live on to see me grown, 
Missed out conversation on the problems I’ve known.
But his gifts of life,
And his gifts of earthly love
Still ground me on earth,
Angelically guarding and guiding
Like the finest made glove
Existing throughout our human family's
Journey of love.


Details | Elegy | |

THE INCARNATE

 On a day never unseen
 when our souls are called to rest
 And our bodies returned to dust
 From whence they came
 Whether burdened with age
 Or unable to cross life's next stage
 If in bed we Lia in wait
 Or by force others do take

 On a day not unforeseen
 When the key to our creation
 Unlocks the door to mans destruction
 And all hope in life, LOST...!
As men have always been half
 in love with death

 Cyclically life and death move
 For death brings us sorrow
 But a day would come we will all follow
 And when again life is gone
 In new bodies we shall be born

 In whom evil dominates
 A lower being regenerates
 In whom good prevails
 A pure soul avails


Details | Elegy | |

THE INCARNATE

 On a day never unseen
 when our souls are called to rest
 And our bodies returned to dust
 From whence they came
 Whether burdened with age
 Or unable to cross life's next stage
 If in bed we Lia in wait
 Or by force others do take

 On a day not unforeseen
 When the key to our creation
 Unlocks the door to mans destruction
 And all hope in life, LOST...!
As men have always been half
 in love with death

 Cyclically life and death move
 For death brings us sorrow
 But a day would come we will all follow
 And when again life is gone
 In new bodies we shall be born

 In whom evil dominates
 A lower being regenerates
 In whom good prevails
 A pure soul avails


Details | Elegy | |

THE INCARNATE

 On a day never unseen
 when our souls are called to rest
 And our bodies returned to dust
 From whence they came
 Whether burdened with age
 Or unable to cross life's next stage
 If in bed we Lia in wait
 Or by force others do take

 On a day not unforeseen
 When the key to our creation
 Unlocks the door to mans destruction
 And all hope in life, LOST...!
As men have always been half
 in love with death

 Cyclically life and death move
 For death brings us sorrow
 But a day would come we will all follow
 And when again life is gone
 In new bodies we shall be born

 In whom evil dominates
 A lower being regenerates
 In whom good prevails
 A pure soul avails