If thereβs nothing hereafter,
emptiness after sorrow,
the end to all morrows,
where does one stand thereafter?
Scores of years end so abrupt,
each breath a curse the Midas touch.
For not all that glitters is gold,
existence may be a canvas yet each life is a mote.
A thousand years aβ speck,
we have a few scores of note.
A million years aβ fleck,
The more I know, just how little one can know of hereafter.
