Lucifer, you, too, are a fisher of men
and time despairs of men.
Our pride lies in the ravenous  sea - 
from which we sprang - 
and will return.

Dark clouds shadow us, it's true,
and whisper that all that is, is not,
that we are as a piece with mere oblivion.
But, I see, this winding path will never do.
A woman holds her stillborn child.
Do you watch over her
as she suddenly grows older?

No, we are the goose-pimpled ones,
full of bare humanity;
our slurried eyes
leave no impression,
we turn the page.

And death is our only acknowledgement
and love our magical repartee
and our only claim is just, to be.