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.