Dirge
Here today, gone tomorrow
Fate of those who breathe in air.
The mind is sore; the heart is hollow
Grey or not, damn the hair.
How true it unveils,
The world is birthed from the Death's marrow.
Like every other day, He picks His scales
Walking the earth, weighing His cargo?
Whose pay is ultimate
from the pains everlasting,
and the vague that desecrates
the joy promised to go lasting?
For this pain,
Just this pain, there is no gain.
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