this is our grendel-like world

This is our Grendel-like world, La Bette,
Whose gob full of fire and blaze
Puts ashes on every affectionate soul.
This is the Depth, unfathomable and austere,
Proclaiming nothing but its own severity,
Through changing masks and disobedience
Of our pitiable will; we fall into the realms
Of that ubiquitous and dreary chasm,
Malevolantly open and in man prostrated
Like deadly skirmish of a hearth and reason.
This is the everlasting confrontation and the nerve
By which we live, preposterous in beeng,
Assumed and feable, and forlorn
Of natural tranquillity and peace,
To meet the faith with all disapprobation
Of our privileged intelligence.
This is the place of hole-and-corner deeds,
Prospering in prevarication;
And while it comes to delicately kill
With all its tenants and embracing feelers,
WE burst into its clasp and faintly cry
Those utterances of unworthy living:

"We're all too week to leave you out,
And all too frail to skream and shout!"

The spirit of the world is leaning faster,
As if the whole vocation of the ancient lore
Had gone into the air as needless vapour,
So desperately vanishing without return.
And surely, through some sad redemption,
It will reveal the monstrous man,
Who roun the lavender will seek
The words of honour, might he speak:

"I AM to scatter handfull of insanity away,
To stretch this little hollow of the hand
And put my DIES IRAE done to death."

13.07.2001g. guitar_bach@mail.com