Blind and cruel among the race of men,
how many deaths the world has yet to see;
all faces fade, and once-smooth skin
is traced by wrinkles, troubling even the young.
And blood grows heavy in the grieving eyes,
the final drop dissolves at last in tears.
What once seemed dear now loses all its worth,
for in that other world
there is no tenderness steeped in wine.
And the same shudder felt at one such sight
will beckon another with its bony hand;
no guiding star you follow through the night
will spare you — youth itself she will not stand.