The entity of humans is but a prisoner
In the web of its own weavings
A prisoner of love, and of the hate
Of the good and of the evil.
The sorrowful and the joyous moments
Last not till the dawn of the dark
But fade by the shine of the dusk.
I am my own beloved
I am the petal of the flower
I am the gust of the wind
I am the white flake of the snow.
Sorrowfully moaning, wailing and crying
As life slips from the lips of life
And reaches the silent chambers of the grave.
I shed tears at my own grave
Which fall from the eye of my spirit.