The Holy Night

Rich men design their tombs

Opulent when built, impressive when filled

But everything fades and crumbles

There is no insect floating on the sea

Although the waves are gone

No foam, no wonder

Just stillness at the holy night’s beginning

 

The poor entreat their souls make do

Without a mausoleum

Perhaps an ossuary will suffice if fortune favours corpses

But everything fades and crumbles

Changing states that outward form

No life, no wonder

Just despair at the holy night’s ending

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