All things without reference vanish
to the undiscovered country
from which none have yet returned.
Those whom fortune neither kissed nor cursed,
a language too archaic for our tounges,
the dream that slips from memory as you awaken.
An ambitious hope abandoned
‘ere it became more than but a shadow.
And so too will my soul,
to this place depart.
I would still myself remain.
even lacking in an arm or leg or two,
But if I lost my brain,
I’d be no longer.
(though how can one fairly judge
themselves to be not mad?)
Ay, if but my consciousness endures,
I need not head nor body.
So I crystalize the image of my soul
in these poetic horcruxes,
hoping they outlast this
decomposing mortal coil.