The exacting, enormous, everlasting, eternal's gaze
What can there be, but the failure of a life in decay
Dead flesh putrefying, as every dream lays in state
Why give someone a life without the will to live it
Or give one hope without giving a will to fulfill it
Life might be a gift, but the value in it is uncertain
If there's only pain, remaining dreams untouched
Should life's joy remain hidden, if there is no love
What gives life value, if there is no joy, no hope?
What is there in the end, if it all turns to dust?
“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many
dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though
in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps
the greater.” J.R.R. Tolkien
