Miserable


No God, no laws
No scheme or order
Demons or angels
Just science and art
And witty thoughts
From wise, bearded oldies.

No truth, no precision
No sacred creeds to relish,
Or revelations to believe
Just flickering facts
Flowing with the tides
Ever changing, never stable.

No God, no saviours
No boons for my labours
Just me in a dying world,
Going round praying in vain,
Just me, all by myself,
Life fashioned for the grave
My skulls for termite’s games

No heaven, no hell
No other world but this,
This dying earth,
This fading speck
In the boundless heart of space

Miserable man, tossed by fate
Alive as brutes and birds
A wretch, a dung: poor me!
Better dead than to live
In a world so sick and grim
Better never to have been
Than to be and see all these.

Better to be nothing
Than to be human. 

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