Young Writers Society

The more hopeless the more comforting
This time of rains and withering
When hideous dissolution
Is the reason for our suffering.

Anguish, a vast depression,
Rules over us like drunkards
As if, with screeching fiddle,
A beggar stood round the corner.

But behind all these disasters
The destruction of externals
Is the attempt, based on so little,
To strike through and find greatness.

In the name of merciless clarity
For the sake of deafening freedom
At this time of nature’s cycle
We submit ourselves to danger.

When the woods are stripped of covering
And, deepening gloom, the rains
Expose to its foundations
The structure of the world.

But, all inessentials burnt away
Before the people’s eyes,
In the end the Supreme Being
Lays bare the very essence:

Such wealth of love for us
And such an abyss of time
As only a worthless nullity
Could receive without repayment.