To Each His Own

We're born alone, and so we die, Alone, no use to fuss or moan- Each living thing must face the truth: We drink our cup of grief, alone. The smallest mite will feel the pangs Of discipline, and hearts of stone, Revenge exacted, full, complete: He drinks his cup of grief, alone. The older ones learn all too soon There is not long one can postpone The common lot of man and beast: They drink their cup of grief, alone. All creatures born, at last confront There be no pardon or atone For random guilt that living brings: They drink then that last cup, alone.