Don’t be fooled by the veils of laughter and hides of hugs; life itself is not worth the sentiment. All we see are a shadow of what ought to be; a fleeting flash in a pan, our moments are.
Don’t be mocked by the crying hues of the market, nor carried away by the stern looks on the labourers’ face. That too, will not wipe away; but a fate shares the Plebian and the Patrician. The question is always about when and how.
You may, content your will in this simple tale: living is a dossier of births and deaths. To some we record many, others just a handful of them. But, of our ultimate end, who shall render the dirge or the eulogy is left to chance as a dice.
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