Once more I look upon, with awful dread,
the tangle into which we’re surely led.
As hell’s maw opens, draws us ever in
It’s not a game that we can hope to win.
Nor weave again the bald and tattered weft
in hands of souls in whom all hope’s bereft
To darn the holes that true life, weary, leaves
To save the love that fate’s curse always thieves.
I cannot find the strength of will to bear
nor drive away the fearful lonely scare
of losing now that, which before I thought,
through will and love and pain so dearly bought
would by our sides and more forever be
to guide us to our own eternity.