The skies have darkened (for him) , and the threads pull and drain the color of
The life also; the man in that feeble will is a puppet yet.
All is now dying away, and yet the Age has not past half—
Ignorance in zenith, and the exhausting pleasures
The dying and the dead pleasures
I do ask, what happiness is there in that,
Which may disappear by a human night?
The pleasure that he sees is all that he knows in his foolish mind
What does he know of it? what of the illusion that he sees? the threads pulling him?
The pleasure is more a pain
Whether he suppress it,
whether he let it take over.
He is canceling with his opposite reflection in the mirror,
And the eternal soul, back again to take an ignorant birth, and an ignorant death.
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