Why do I think it better to live than to die?
I live with a weight of shame and am weak,
and what hope have I of reaching to the sky,
who cannot bare the sunlight on his cheek?
I live in a hall of mirrors haunted by
the echoes of the gods whom I once touched -
how far the Earth now seems from their revelry
which magic had passingly passed to the unjust;
but they too are forms of shadow passing by
upon the walls of a Saturnian tent,
cast by fires that glitter in the eye;
and who has kindled we did not invent,
nor can we pierce the righteous mystery
that raises up and brings down with sole intent.