The crumbs of bitter comfort fall; Our throats are parched; our mouths are dry; The dead leaves drift along the wall; "A little happiness!" we cry. "Not much -- not long; enough to drink Once of the sweet sun, ere we go. Not long -- not much; enough to know Once how the gods live, ere we sink." "Serve Life" -- they preach -- "Your pleasure's naught. Serve Life and die." Must those, who never Asked to be born, be balked of their retort? "Life is our enemy forever!" Thus have the generations cried -- "O Unknown, let us feel content We had our jest before we went -- We were revenged before we died!" |