Born to life, then death's call we heed,
No joy of our own, no will to proceed.
Best it would be, to hold no world's desire,
Best it would be, to quell all earthly fire,
But what can we do, if longing won't cease?
Whose hand has held, on fading paths, release?
Whose hand has held, on pathways to decay?
Go forth, then, traveler, while life lights the way.
The playful breeze departs this blossoming place,
The playful breeze departs, with fleeting grace,
Let the wind of morning now, where it will roam,
Born to life, then death's call we welcome home,
No joy of our own, no will of our own.
|
