Neither birth, nor death, escape pain
it starts with the babe's cry
Men wax and wane, throughout their reign
in the end just to die

Through heat and cold we push onward
like Lemmings to the sea
Ever shore-ward, ever nor-ward
and on to victory

The weeks pass by without delay
and with them countless tears
As most I'd say, lament the day
that their months turned to years

What makes man something to behold
is not the after-life
It's in the gold, of stories told
and arms of the good wife

We need no promise from above
to tell us we'll be paid
By joys hereof, through souls we love
is man then measured weighed

Tate