and as I believed I spoke.”
Years back he could utter prayer, years back when he was a child. He cannot utter it now: “For prayer must die since hope is dead.” Now he can only wonder
“Is there nothing real but confusion?
is nothing certain but death?
is nothing fair, save illusion?
is nothing good that has breath?...”
“I can hardly vouch,” he says, again,
“I can hardly vouch
for the truth of what little I see....
On earth there’s little worth a sigh,