From the darkest tunnel of hell's
Fuming quagmire comes Man
Out of Lucifer's lascivious hand
Into the black chasm of a fool's
Dream dreaming of long-spent
Long-lost glories in a distant light
Of a parallel universe cast in torment
Strife and streaming blight!
He knows not where he's landed -
Is it a far corner of the lost haven
Where once his eyes mirrored
The high hallow'd hills of Heaven?
Or in a lake of lime and sulphur
Where nothing grows but lust's fire
And nothing else to do but suffer
Into oblivion's jaw to sink further?
Oh man! most fragile of creatures,
How bereft of reason, how hopeless
Are the days of life's bitter pastures
Where he partakes less and less
Of blessed fruits and more and more
Of death-dealing ruinous intent!
To salvation's skylight can he soar
And restart his stuttering ascent?
How pitiful in sooth is a man's mind?
Unique among all living species
For alone he knows Fate is not kind
But soon enough like autumn leaves
He falls and is consigned to the ground
With only a cross or nothing for reward
While the sun rises and sets all year round
And cares not if he were genius or retard!
Ay, he's so like the bull in the ring
One moment full of spunk and spite
Scornful of what death can bring
Even glorying in the clamorous sunlight
Thinking himself immortal and fearless
For he's too strong to die yet.
Alas! soon enough is he lifeless
Biting dry dust akin to a sun already set!
For countless eons the earth has turned
And if perchance man hasn't ceased to be
Is there hope he would have learned
To be wiser to know that he cannot see
Beyond Time's chartless shimmering sea
Nor can he ever hope of being a god himself
Whatever his might or his wealth:
He is only made of flesh and mortal is he!
Forth from the void's unknown he strives
Unto the infinite expanse of the future.
Man's name lasts as long as his life's
Flickering light to last will venture.
All along he struts and vociferates
And creates a name of great stature
But Time with just a nod obliterates
Whatever is left of man's earthly grandeur!
Therefore, is it worth his while to burden
His mortal soul with so much vanity
That is a blight to long-sought serenity?
Can he live more than three-score-and-ten
And if so fated why in sheer folly waste them
In wild wanton fruitless imaginings?
Instead of sand castles, why not another Behlehem
Of deep compassion for so many wretched beings?
And though oblivion be his lot
Shouldn't he strive for what is bright
Magnanimous and divine and not
Corrupt his precious soul in adulterous light?
Only by singing to the lyre's holy strings
Can he save himself from utter oblivion!
Only by walking under angels' wings
Will he escape the deadly sting of the Great Scorpion!
Claudio Wye
