AT THE TWILIGHT OF AN AGE

The time is late, the day is growing

dark; through the dusk

the first stars glimmer.

Cold are the stars that shine

over the fears and suffering of

the human race;

cold and indifferent like the

mute gods, on whose altars

embers of hope feebly burn.

Orphan in the vast cosmos,

lost on his wandering star,

the human race looks to the falling

night and in fear shivers;

the dawn is a lifetime away,

and whose unseeing eyes

shall not watch the sun rise,

whose cold hands shall not feel

the dew of morning -

no one knows. Death walks

among the orphan race,

and with chill indifference chooses.

20.03.2020