Epitaph III - Parody Chidiock TICHBOURNE 1558_1586 Elegy and Thomas KYD
Today awake, tomorrow lost beneath
some sodden turf, with little left to show
for threescore years of sojourn, lacking teeth,
poor eyesight, addled brain, 'tis time to go.
'My fruit is fallen, yet'... wit weaves writ wreath,
glass full lies empty, quits, slips underneath. An eyelid's twinkling, blink, our present past
becomes, numb, dumb, for coward and for brave,
most stillborn linger, finger truth aghast,
seek safety mining crass conventions' cave,
and then they die, their story stillborn too,
through mind pollution rue solutions true. Our Spring 'of youth is but a frost of cares, '
our fullness feast plays out, frays, 'dish of pain, '
'our crop of corn' time-worn, warns harvest dares'
glean gleams decay, stained by 'vain hope of gain.'
'Our day is past, ' hour one-way trip mirage,
stage tripped, page ripped, sage stripped in crypt collage.