Thou, the bequeather of this birth to death,
In whom thou exhale human existence;
Born from suckling to thy laying of wreath,
None will exist without thine own essence.

Like a winding stairway on lone twisted aisle,
Ascending as stream of crystal rays unknown;
From whence within every mile will worth the while,
Or every turn a test to trump on its own.

Through thy shadowy paths of this sojourn,
Whence thy fate must embrace her scripted end;
From thence thy dim at dawn from morn will mourn,
When death's dark depth will be thine to descend.

Why hast thou begotten thine humanity?
Whom on her own knows not what tomorrow holds;
Save this moment, not whence lies eternity,
Waiting to unfold wonders yon yet untold...

But only in thee, O' life is reality known;
My past, like morning dew forever faded away,
But my now I must walk and own; never to disown,
To that future I'm fated to venture into faraway...

And when this yond my stairs appear no more,
Whence immortality becomes as reality;
Will my soul, eternity swallows in her allure,
Or in pain of purgatory; or perpetual insanity?