The Gods hath writ what none hath ken,
A script beyond the reach of men.
To strive, to seek, to pierce the veil,
Is every soul’s eternal grail.
For he who lifts that sacred tome
May carve his name in star and stone.
Yet time, that thief of memory’s breath,
Shall draw all words to mist and death.
Though some endure through rot and rust,
Their echoes fade to ash and dust.
For vanity, that porous thread,
Unravels all the wise have said.
And in their vast, supreme decree,
The Gods, with cold lucidity,
Have weighed man’s worth and found it seen,
No more, no less, than what hath been.
So let it be, the fate assigned:
A fleeting spark, a bounded mind.
For expectations sought beyond....
It's fading mist and wilted frond.
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