Moe

I gained nothing but madness,

No rapture dwells within the wine,

No fire of desire in women’s arms—

All has turned to emptiness,

Even hope itself a hollow mask.

We roamed the earth, we crossed the seas,

In search of pleasure, search of meaning,

But everywhere we found the same:

Weariness, ugliness, and shadows.

One final journey still remains,

One harbor only waits for us:

It is Death, my friends,

Take me into your cold embrace,

Let me sleep long within you,

That I may rest from this weary world.

O Death, you are the comfort,

You are the last pillow for my head,

Let me sleep within your eternal arms,

If He exists, He must hate me. If He doesn’t, then what is this life but a cruel, empty joke?

It’s my birthday