Sempiternal dubitation lies above me:
Is kismet nothing more than demised flesh?
Is esse nothing more than a dreadful exile?
Perpetual worriment stands beside me:
Is heyday nothing more than a fugacious bloom?
Is senescence just a grim, dire nadir?
We are all the same, we come from nowhere;
no deity has made us, no divinity has build us,
no demiurge to guide us, no numen to lead us.
We are all the same, we are going nowhere;
no icon to extol, not an idol to magnify,
no creator to be blamed, no daemon to condemn.