Filed under: Uncategorized — trinque @ 5:35 p.m.

Warmth from the father; water from the sky
Who pays for the sunlight? Not I.

Breath from the mother; her hand on your eyes
Who wakes from a daydream? Not I.

For comfort is fleeting
And strength withers fast
How unlucky, while kneeling
His knees turned to glass

His daughters all wept
And his sons, they imbibed
They poured out his ash
On the urn was inscribed

Offspring of Adam, and Fortuna's son
He wiled his days spending twice what he'd won


  1. Neato. For some reason reminds me of Kipling's "Cold Iron".

    Comment by Stanislav Datskovskiy — 2019/12/24 @ 5:49 p.m.

  2. Damn. I've re-read this a few times now; it is good.

    Comment by lobbes — 2019/12/25 @ 11:12 a.m.

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