The Death Of The Poor

It is Death, alas, persuades us to keep on living: the goal of life and the only hope we have, like an elixir, rousing, intoxicating, giving the strength to march on towards the grave: through the frost and snow and storm-wind, look it’s the vibrant light on our black horizon: the fabulous inn, written of in the book, where one can eat, and sleep and sit oneself down: it’s an Angel, who holds in his magnetic beams, sleep and the gift of ecstatic dreams, who makes the bed where the poor and naked lie: it’s the glory of the Gods, the mystic granary, it’s the poor man’s purse, his ancient country, it’s the doorway opening on an unknown sky!