The Life’s Sad Song
So sad is the song that life is playing;
so tough is the tone of her accord,
and so worn-out are strings she's straining:
the life itself won't comprehend.
Those raucous strings are vain to move me
by ostentatious show of skill;
amassing crowds of frantic bigots:
degenerate, yet still so proud.
In shallow streams their minds are wandering,
trashed with possessions of no use;
but, sadly, thought - alive and fecund
decays at birth, at shoot's first sprout.
They highly nominate themselves "free-minded",
accentuating cult of "Self";
in separating their sworn fellows,
they brag of reaching wordly crown.
The tune's still sadder when at midnight,
they, woken by the straining dark,
are tearing sheets in fits of groping
just something different from "I".
So dull and boundless men's obsessions
over their wretched, trifle deeds;
adieuing nature's blissful guidance,
they clad themselves in urban gloom.
The song is ever so much plaintive
When man is born and lot his lost;
While fighting back he starts quick learning
to go through life without soul.