The main cause of all this fervor is the speculation
Of the distant and unknowable, subjugating man's paltry sensations.
This is the true source of concerns in the paradise of fools
An affliction much greater than the charms and sorrows of the present
To which the beast is constrained, rooted in a devious storm of passions.
Consolation through the plight of others,
This is the sole form of comfort intrinsic to all.
And what a terrible doom this portends for all of humanity!
Falling like futile sparks from a blacksmith's anvil -
Gone before even hitting the ground.
Empty stares keep bearing down on us.
The whirlwinds of existence spread turmoil
In a sequence of vanishing moments.
Constantly living in hopes for greatness,
All the while regretting and yearning for the past
In the end it was hope that made a fool of us all.