No beg, no chance, no choice I have no deal
In what the murky random close at hand
Or holy wisdom lying may conceal
Or golden silence rashly recommend.
There rise the wind, the sky, the dawn, the sun,
In wrath against the gods they waste their breath
And bring all living impulses to none
Like in the fairy tale of love and death.
Oh days of yore! Oh bloody days of yore!
Yet I believe my fight and flight and fall
Into the murk bespattered with my gore
Shall bear my being far beyond the All.
Upon my days, though I beseech and pray,
Some ruthless hand brings ruin and decay.