In the night the dark light
shines,
deep within the shadows.
In the dimness softly glows,
the heart of all believing.
Cold my brain and dim my
eyes
and yet I grope on, hoping
(despite my fears and anger
hard
and desperation growing)
that it is there, and solace
gives;
gainsaying all
appearance.
I come upon the deep abyss
of hate and pain and sorrow
where love is lost and
swallowed up
to spite all word of morrow.
I drink my fill the brook of
loss
that plunges there in
torrent
down cruel rocks that know
no joy
but battered are by years of
bloody woe.
My thirst assuaged, I risk
the sight
gained at the chasm’s
brink.
I
stare into the dark of death: the end of being fell.
I feel it steel into my soul
and recognise it full well
for what has always present
been amidst my tawdry hopes;
the lie to all my vanities,
the cusp of all conceits,
the worm that gnaws my heart
away:
the knowledge of mortality.
I long to fly the deep
descent
which offers me release
from suffering and hate,
to embrace the arms of
hostile rock
and shatter in their urgent
grasp:
to spend my life in one last
spill of blood;
but at the edge
some unsought instinct
speaks,
an unseen hand does stay my
step,
and I pull back.
But I am lost, I have no
guide
to tend my way or point me
right.
As I advance the choice
repeats
again and again, without
release,
’twixt life and death,
’twixt good and ill.
But why chose life, when
life itself is ill
and offers naught but pain
and prospect more of same?
Surely ’tis better to be
dead
and put an end to doubt and
dread
if life itself’s a living
death!
But still ’tis life I
choose,
though it is fraught with
woe;
for one thing’s clear:
that if I once choose death
there will be no ’morrow
in which to make another
choice;
no chance to regret any
choice,
no chance to grow,
not even chance to know
the pain of loss and of
sorrow.
While there’s life there’s
room for hope,
even if that hope be false;
and, though false hope is
foul
and ne’re to be desired
(a spectre which despises
life
yet offers what it hates)
still, life will always demand hope
and hope will promise life
in everlasting play
and dance reciprocal.
Perforce, I live in hope;
and, though I may in despair
die,
I can not help but hope
or else, e’en now, I die.
Far in the West, I glimpse
the end
of all my paths and choices.
No
matter if I soon find joy
in little things of hearth
and home,
or greater things of art and
skill,
or greatest things of
wisdom’s kin,
or even love that thrills my
soul
and my whole heart does win;
still I shall die
and all my enterprise shall
come to naught.
All I hold dear shall be
undone
my fine conceits be futile
shown.
So what for hope and life?
This life is dying as it
lives: it is not e’en itself!
The law of identity it
denies
and can’t keep faith with
its own name!
Its hope leads surely to the
clammy grave:
and so is shown most truly
false!
Still, in the night the dark
light shines,
deep within the shadows.
In the dimness softly glows,
the heart of all believing.
Cold my brain and dim my
eyes
and yet I grope on, hoping
(despite my fears and anger
hard
and desperation growing)
that it is there, and solace
gives;
gainsaying
all appearance.
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