Desire

We cannot aspire to that, which is already dead, And there is no solace in delusion; We should save the present for future memories; Thus, to remember we had a life we lived. No soul that is born alone and dies alone ever pertain To anyone, on this mortal realm of mortals; Nothing we are, but an evanescent breath of air; Utopian significance of being insignificant. How a superbus phallus in carnal pleasure dies, That ephemeral all these earthly passions are; Like the face of moon from dusk till dawn, When sun replace its ardour with other kind of warmth. Why consume our breath in yearning, suspiration? Desire's flame needs oxygen, —and that will suffocate us; The chastity of senses shall purge our spirits pure, And rise above this Life whose claim is to endure.