I am a stranger to this craft
As we are all strangers
But from bad ore comes the superior sword
And my earth can be no better than yours.
There is a town to the east of here
A busy place where I have a great tomb by a lake
Some many thousands died that I might die there
When the time for dying comes
As it must come.
There is a woman for each night now
Women of autumn and women of the first days of spring
Women for the rains
For the snow
And for a stranger on the day of death
It is always the first one that returns.
It is better to drink than contemplate the virtue of thirst
And better to deceive than do nothing but search for truth.
Quaint aphorisms for quaint days
Death upon death until at last serenity reigns once more upon this anguished earth
This ironic earth
This strange, dying, dead earth
This tomb I have dug with my own hands
This lonely flesh and inferior art
This single love
This anachronistic craft.
© John A. Youril