Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,
I wish you peace my son.
But why do you suffer so much
As if a smouldering cauldron
Your boiling heart will burst
And you seek your peace in death?
Not yet full of years
What makes you feel
The full burden of your time?
Why do you think it is out of joint
And something is wrong
In the state of Denmark?
Here justice is denied in delay
And the weak oppressed
By insolence of office
The villains wear a smiling face
While this quintessence of dust
Sublimates itself not in love but in lust?
Why the question to be or not to be
Haunts you continually
And a morbid obsession
Empties your being of all meanings
For wrongs suffered not only by you but all?
Your friends complacently live
In perfect peace with this world.
They never think
They were born to set it right
No doubts gnawing their blessed souls
They placidly drift
With the ebb and flow of things.
But you are maddened
By a lack of method in this world
A garden overgrown with weeds
Things rank and gross possessing it merely.
To suit your fancy
You fashion a world of your own
Your philosophy
Posits a pattern behind this distracted globe
That eternally revolves on its arbitrary axis.
Neither any cause nor any goal
Pushes it or pulls
It simply is.
In it there is nothing either good or bad
Only your thinking makes it so.
You hallucinate a hell or a heaven
When there is none
And your illusions and visions
Burst like bubbles in a broken dream
In a raging flame you profitlessly blaze
Finding your scalded existence
Purposeless and stale.
Do you repent over that skull
Dug up by the gravediggers’ spades
How in a metaphysic maelstrom you missed
To live your life in full?
Chastened rebels at last
Do all of us feel
Readiness is all?
Or there is a nobleness for our frail frame
Despite the diseases it is heir to
To take arms against a sea of troubles
In a world where all else take
Their inevitable end as something given?
