THAT we may blur remembrance, we exist
By passion, dread, doubt, hatred, and
desire,
Snared to bewildering time until we tire,
Collapse, and fail; wraiths in a world of mist,
A flickering concourse, where men twinge, cringe, twist,
Strut, grope, grimace, hope, languish, and aspire;
Whose chance moods are as wine that thrills with fire
The souls of martyr, clown, and sensualist.
Unending, timeless, apathetic state.
Whence life, oblivious, drew us – death amain
Shall hurl us thither when, like sparks afresh.
We’ll take the darkness. By Our will innate
All things imagined live – all joy, sense, pain,
All fulfilled life – in Our perpetual flesh.
(E J Rupert Atkinson)
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