What sins has man that will not heal in time?
Whose crimes committed not against the state
Would tempt with wand'ring thoughts the curse of fate
To take from reason, trust, to leave him blind
What morals left as guides upon his wealth?
Where peasants rich in gifts but of their heart
Know joy; as purest life, as simplest art
And love as hate without the love of self
Whose life reflects the truth another knows
Will pierce both gods and demons of his soul
And in his bitter hatred age him old
To wither, wrinkling, naked in the snow
If but that mind with body were to stay
And not be left to haunt these troubled streets
To dust returned from dust that came to meet
with life. In death, a solace waits within the clay.
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