As you examine the ruin of your life,
Which, in your mind, you call yesterday,
A once-happy past that brings you sorrow,
In a present that disappears,
You understand—as you count your tears—
You will only be alive tomorrow.
In your yesterday, you always are,
So in its death is all your life.
In this moment, vanishing,
You glimpse two things: tomorrow’s star,
Strange place! where you shall die,
And this moment—which makes you cry.
