Life is a song sung from a hallowed mouth.
All who breathe have their performances on,
others bowed out already, them that are gone,
proof that even the best rendition leads south –
down to the grave, to that abysmal oblivion,
stronger than its victims, it’s withered all rebellion.
Pray find me a singer, the very best to be found.
Let them sing my song; in a melodious sound,
sing me a chorus of love and harmony;
in a loud voice, sing me a crescendo of joy;
in soft soprano, sing me a splendid wedding;
in my own words, sing me a happy ending.
Pause not to breath and send me to a sickbed
with memories of health fresh in my head.
Have your breath steady, keep your voice strong;
This is no rehearsal, you cannot go wrong.
This song can only be sung and heard once,
once while I live, miming out a dance,
which is my unpractised performance of my life.
That’s why missed steps are acceptable no matter how rife,
as long as one does not stop trying, and keeps his head up,
working on improving his dance, until his time on earth is up.
Sing all my lines, leave no vestige of life unlived.
I need a pianist, guitarist, violinist. I need a drummer
to give me a strong beat – in life a seasoning of drama.
I want my life-song to be a true masterpiece of art,
which future generations can remember after I depart.
Give me rhyme, give me rhythm, give me a smooth flow,
I want to step off this stage with a clearly visible glow
such that no one will wonder if I had fun while I lived.