Our bodies fail, as all that’s flesh must do.
The fresh and supple frame soon falls, frail dust.
So we console ourselves, conspiring to
Content ourselves our minds have yet to rust.
But there’s the rub—our brains already fade,
And soon we can’t recall our bodies’ prime—
The gears get hung on all the plans we’ve made,
So we forget the reason and the rhyme!
Ah, but the Soul, we say—forever young!
Our Spirit’s white and bright as newborn eyes,
Eternal, taut, and keen. Yet still we’re stung
By Truth’s uncouth response to all our lies—
Your Spirit’s sicker than your putrid blood;
Relinquish all vain hope, damned speck of mud!
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