* * *

Based on pure chance, a useless gift,
A life — why was it given to me?
And why did furtive fate so swift
My life to end in death decree?

What power hostile in intent
Called me from Lethe’s mephitism,
Made my soul's essence passion-bent,
But roiled my mind with skepticism?

No goal I see in front of me,
My mind is idle, my heart numb,
And life’s nonstop monotony
Drones on with wretched, endless thrum.